


loving you's a bloodsport

by tolvsmol



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, Mystery, OR ISS ITTTTTTT, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, and lots of aftermath of violent moments, like. the fucking slowest burn oh my god i'm very sorry it surprised even me, lots of heartbreak lots of tears the only ones guaranteed not to suffer are the animals, niall's my favorite character and he'll be yours too so dont worry, not much actual violence but lots of blood, sort of idk there's a dash of it in there but not a Huge aspect of the story, this is essentially a niall character study with side pairing harry/louis, you've been warned so read at ur own discretion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2020-06-25 02:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 106,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19736515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolvsmol/pseuds/tolvsmol
Summary: harry is a bratty prince, louis is a guard who works in his palace, and niall is the only who's got his life in control.as someone once said: this is not a love story, but love is in it. that is, love is just outside it, looking for a way to break in.





	1. if i'm not all you need

**Author's Note:**

> hello this fic has been in the works since jan 2, 2018 and i finally just _had_ to share it. it's not finished right now, there'll be two more parts i believe, but i needed to post at least the first chapter so i could be motivated to write more. this fic started as a soulmates au but then it became a beast and took a life on its own and honestly i dont know how it happened.
> 
> i've been through too much shit since it started and too many Life complications have happened since the time i started writing this and i've had many many moments where i wanted to stop and delete the whole damn thing, but i couldn't. thank u to all the people that have held me at gunpoint and kept me going — amber, kat, mari, bhia, everyone who read the draft and gave me feedback, but Especially rafa and jeanne. i truly would've given up ages ago if it weren't for the two of them, so a million thanks to the two of them for keeping me sane. ♡
> 
> and all my gratitude to mr. raleigh ritchie for writing bloodsport. without him, this title (and maybe this story) wouldn't exist. kissy for mr. ritchie mwah go listen to his album (after reading this) ♡

_“Eye contact: how souls catch fire.” — Yahia Lababidi_

* * *

“Have yourself a merry night, Lady Alexandra.” Harry flashes a dazzling smile, even though he doesn’t need to, and brings her hand up to brush a kiss along her knuckles. “You were lovely,” he tells her, and it isn’t a lie — not entirely. He isn’t quite sure why he brought her here, because nothing about her delicate structure implies that she could be the one. If she were the one Harry wants, there should be a bruise near her left eye, albeit very faint. Maybe it was the atmosphere of the night, what with all the drinking and dancing and not thinking about anything, that resulted in him bringing her here. Harry doesn’t know and doesn’t really care. 

Even in the dim glow of the room, Harry can see the blush on her cheek as he tips up her face to meet her brown eyes. They go a little hazy when they meet Harry’s, but he keeps smiling at her, unblinking as he says the next words, “You’re going to forget this happened. You had a good time, but if someone asks where you were, you’re going to tell them you had a nice stroll in the gardens.”

Lady Alexandra doesn’t question why she would be in the gardens this time of night when there’s a lively party inside — or this time of year, given the cold — but Harry doesn’t expect her to. She hums in agreement, her eyes still unfocused, and Harry blinks then; Lady Alexandra eyes brighten immediately, and she smiles almost delicately at him and murmurs a soft “Goodnight, Your Highness,” before slipping out of the room.

Harry falls back on the rumpled bed and only has to wait half a minute before he hears quiet footsteps padding towards him. He hasn’t even opened his eyes when he feels something soft drop on his chest.

“Please, can you get your clothes sorted out properly — and quickly? I can’t watch over you all night,” Niall’s only slightly irritated voice says from somewhere nearby.

“You’re the Captain of the Guard,” Harry responds slowly, feeling a grin tug at his lips, “it’s literally your _job_ to watch over me.”

“Actually, my job is to watch over the Guard, and you make that incredibly difficult sometimes.” Niall doesn’t sound upset — he’s never upset with Harry, so it’s all good. Harry sits up and pulls on his white shirt (with some difficulty, thanks to his inebriated state) and then the navy vest over it. He doesn’t bother properly wearing the coat, opting instead to let it hang from his shoulders and puts on his boots. “Did you have to do this tonight, Harry? I mean, really.” Niall pulls him to his feet and keeps an arm around Harry’s waist, guiding him out of the room and towards Harry’s own. “It’s your sister’s engagement party.”

“Hey, if she can bed someone right now, so can I.” The lights are too bright. Harry hides his face in the crook of Niall’s neck.

“She’s _bedding_ her soon-to-be husband.”

“I can’t enjoy myself if I haven’t got a husband? A prince has his princely needs, Captain.”

“You have _wants,_ Your Highness. What you _need_ is to sleep this night off. We don’t need you making a fool of yourself in front of everyone.”

Niall’s right, of course, because when isn’t he right? Tonight was a long night, mostly because nothing was really meant to _happen._ It was just one of those meaningless nights full of glitter and glamour that Harry’s mother and sister both adore, and Harry isn’t opposed to them either, because he gets to meet people, but lately he hasn’t been very fond of them. His mother introduces him to too many young women, and Harry knows what she’s doing, and he doesn’t like it — not one bit, so these nights are quickly falling down the list of Harry’s favorite things.

Not to mention that in the last year or so, Harry’s life has become less and less his own. Every now and then, without any warning, he feels a sharp jab of pain in his shoulder or his abdomen or his leg, and despite all the time that has passed, Harry hasn’t gotten used to it. It’s not like the pain is new, really, it’s just that within the last year it became more and more frequent and, well, it’s jarring, knowing the pain isn’t _his,_ knowing someone, somewhere is hurting and that Harry can’t do anything about it. 

They walk in comfortable silence, Niall supporting almost all of Harry’s weight, and when they make it to Harry’s rooms, Niall helps him take off the coat and vest and even undoes Harry’s boots. “I’ll have someone bring you water and something for your head, so it doesn’t kill you when you wake up,” Niall tells him softly as Harry’s head hits the pillow. He loves Niall, really. “Sweet dreams, Your Highness.”

“All my love to you, Captain.”

Before he falls asleep, something warm and fuzzy nuzzles its way into Harry’s neck, and he murmurs a quiet goodnight to his puppy. 

▴▴▴

A winter wedding is, frankly, not something Harry would have approved if he had any say in the matter, and it’s something his future self would do well to remember. As it happens, despite being the crown prince of Delea, Harry’s wishes really aren’t that important when it comes to this wedding, because Gemma set her foot down about wanting to be married when there’s snow outside, so, really, there’s nothing Harry can do but be bitter to himself. He doesn’t much fancy the cold, is the thing — he much prefers to be without the heavy garments he needs to wear now to keep himself warm. What Harry wants to wear is his rose-colored silk top — the one with delicate gold flowers — and loose pajama bottoms. What Harry gets to wear is a dark-grey vest underneath a velvet, maroon coat and grey, high-waisted pants. His boots match the dark coat, accented with a splash of gold to compliment the embellishments on the coat, and he knows he looks good. He knows it, and still, he wishes he could wear his pink shirt and be in the comfort of his warm bed, Primrose in his lap.

He’s on the brink of being more than a little tipsy, standing against a golden column at the edge of the ballroom, eyes lazily scanning over frilly dresses and corsets, lingering on a boy in a powder-blue jacket. Harry knows it won’t be him, because this boy looks a little too tender and a little too unblemished to be Harry’s, but still. It can’t hurt to be certain. The night will start winding down soon, in another two hours or so if Harry had to wager, so that’s how long he has left. Harry plucks a small, white flower from a garland wrapped around the column and tucks it into his hair — and, on second thought, removes a witch hazel to slip in his breast pocket. It looks marvelous with the gold buttons.

He’s about to seek out the boy in the powder blue jacket when he sees his mother approaching him, two girls trailing after her — and a trio of guards shadowing not far behind. Harry steps forward and lets his mother kiss his cheek. She smiles warmly at him when she gestures at the women beside her. “Harry, dear, meet Lady Alexandra and Lady Esther.”

Lady Alexandra is wearing a seafoam-green gown that reveals her shoulders and midriff (much like last night, actually), and Lady Esther is in a lilac dress that doesn’t reveal an inch of skin below her neck. They both look lovely, but Harry doesn’t want to lose the boy who caught his eye earlier.

“Lady Alexandra will be returning home soon after the wedding, but we have Lady Esther for a while longer before she bids us farewell. Would you be a dear and keep our guests company for a bit? I’ve told them lovely things about you,” his mother says with a genuine sparkle in her eye, and she not-so-subtly steps back so she isn’t between Harry and the two ladies.

“Of course.” Harry pulls absently at his bottom lip, and then, “A word first, Mother?” And although he knows it’s quite rude to do so in this setting, Harry invades the queen’s personal space to quietly whisper in her ear, “I’m already acquainted with Lady Alexandra, so you can shoo her away, please.”

“Harry!” It’s a mild rebuke, honestly — Harry’s had worse from his mother. “Please tell me you didn’t, love.”

Harry keeps his smile in place, feeling giddy, but he doesn’t know if it’s the thrill of scandalizing his mother or the buzz from the alcohol. “She doesn’t remember anything, don’t worry. We didn’t do anything wrong.” _Wrong_ is a heavily subjective word, which is why he uses it, and then he offers his arms to the women in front of him, both of whom hook their elbow with each of his, and they bid the queen good night.

The three of them meander around the golden ballroom, and Harry introduces the two ladies to a handful of men, hoping to hand them off to someone else soon. The ballroom is crowded, smelling strongly of roses, but not overwhelmingly so. It’s just enough to be pleasant and soothe Harry’s thoughts. The chandeliers sparkle overhead, catching soft, golden light from lamps, reflecting in the many jewels everyone is adorned in. The boy in the powder-blue jacket is near a window, dancing in place with a girl wearing an amber gown. Even from a distance and without seeing her face, Harry would be willing to bet she’s the loveliest woman in the room, apart from the queen herself and the bride-to-be.

Speaking of whom, Harry’s eyes wander over the bright dresses, but he doesn’t spot the maroon and gold dress he knows his sister is wearing, nor does he see light glinting off her silver diadem. He purposely matched their outfits, just to drive her mad one last time, and when she saw Harry earlier, she said, “Good thing I had three extra gowns prepared, just in case you were up to your shenanigans again. I’ll just change into one of those.” Harry scans the room for Niall, but, of course, Niall is busy being Captain tonight. 

“Lady Esther,” Harry begins, about to tell her and Lady Alexandra that he’s going to find his sister, so he can get them all acquainted, but before he can say another word, there’s a phantom iron fist colliding with his temple, and he can’t _breathe._ His vision blackens, hot, white stars dancing behind his eyelids, and he feels his stomach get pushed into his spine, all the wind knocked out of him, and there’s shouting. There’s a lot of yelling and shouting and frantic screaming, and something wet slides down Harry’s neck and arm, and he’s…he can’t fucking breathe as the realization hits him somewhere in his chest.

 _I’m going to kill you,_ he thinks blearily at his person, at his bloody soulmate, _and then I’m going to tear apart whoever is doing this to you._

A minute or an hour passes, Harry doesn’t know, and someone’s pulling him to his feet, steady arms gripping his elbows. The pain vanishes just as quickly as it appeared, and Harry isn’t hurt, he knows this, but now there are people staring at him, eyes wide and mouths agape, their wine glasses forgotten — and, yes, that cold liquid under his clothes would be someone’s spilled drink. 

“Your Highness, are you alright?” he hears someone ask, and he turns to his right to find a guard holding him upright, his stormy, grey eyes alert. When Harry nods, still a bit dazed from the sudden onslaught of hurt, the guard continues, “May I escort you to your rooms? I can have a medic come and examine you.”

“I’m fine, Castro.” He is, physically speaking, but his mind is racing in a million different directions. His eyes roam over the anxious crowd until they catch sight of a powder-blue jacket, and, yes, there he is. He’s a little closer than before, holding the girl protectively close to his side, and he’s unharmed, not a single hair on his head ruffled. 

“Sir, we need to get you away from here,” Castro is saying, and when Harry turns his attention back to him, he finds the man’s grey eyes darting all over the ballroom, yet never quite straying from Harry. He looks about half a second away from firing his crossbow if someone so much as breathes wrong and something unpleasant twists in Harry’s gut. 

“What’s happening?” he asks, voice firm and demanding, all nonchalance thrown out because his sister is getting engaged tonight, and Castro looks like they’ve just gone into battle. 

“I’m not certain, Your Highness, but we need to get you away from here and to your rooms.”

Harry ignores the man, opts instead to look around the room for familiar faces. Wide eyes stare back him, simultaneously curious and unsuspecting, and Harry asks the guard, “Where’s my mother? Where’s Gemma?” 

Without warning or permission, Castro begins to steer Harry away from the twinkling lights of the ballroom. “Her Majesty is safe; she was taken to the throne room and her guards are with her. You needn’t worry about her.” They walk down a hall, their footsteps quiet on the thick, red carpet, but Harry can tell they aren’t alone. When he looks over his shoulder, he counts at least seven guards trailing him and Castro. That’s not normal. 

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong, and Harry doesn’t miss the fact that Castro only answered one of his questions. 

“Where is Gemma?” he asks again as they make a right turn and approach the winding stairway. The two drinks Harry had earlier seem to have left his system and there’s dread pooling in his stomach. When Castro doesn’t answer, Harry stops in his tracks and waits silently, and when all the men keep their eyes trained on their feet, Harry’s temper flares. He’s not an angry person, he isn’t, but he is the crown prince, and when he asks a question, they’re meant to provide him with answers. Instead of continuing towards his own chambers, Harry takes a sharp turn toward where Gemma’s rooms are. 

And to Harry’s surprise, one of the guards — Harry doesn’t recognize this one by name — steps forward to block Harry’s path, his arms held wide at his side, like he’s willing to tackle Harry to floor if he has to. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Harry’s irritated, to say the least, because too much is happening, and he hasn’t made sense of any of it, and now _his_ guards think they have the fucking authority to stand in his way.

“Your Highness, you can’t go in there. I can’t let you do that,” Castro speaks up finally, and he doesn’t sound the least bit remorseful. There is something there, though, something just beneath the surface that doesn’t sit well with Harry. 

“You don’t _let_ me do anything,” he reminds them. Straightening his spine and squaring his shoulders, Harry locks his jaw and says, “Move,” and the one word is more commanding than Harry ever is. 

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, but Captain Horan forbade any personnel in the East Wing, and especially in Her Highness’ chambers.” 

And that’s not what Harry was expecting. He doesn't know what’s happened to warrant this kind of panic, but he sure as hell isn’t going to allow anyone to hide him away while he has no idea what’s happening in his own home. He faces Castro, waits until their eyes meet and then says Castro’s name — just once — and watches as the man’s grey eyes lose focus, staring into Harry’s without seeing anything. “Tell me what’s going on, Castro.”

If he feels any guilt about what he’s doing, he can deal with it later, morals be damned. There are more pressing issues at hand. 

When Castro speaks again, his voice comes out sounding a bit monotonous, as though he has no interest in what he’s saying, like he has no control over what he’s saying. Harry knows only the latter is true. 

“I don’t know the details, sir, but Her Highness is missing from her chambers, and her handmaiden has been killed. The guards stationed outside her rooms are knocked unconscious, and one is missing. The whereabouts of His Highness, sir, are unknown. No one seems to remember seeing him last. Captain Horan ordered me to stay with you at all times and keep you away from the East Wing.” 

Harry’s blood chills at the words, and he doesn’t know which part to focus on. His sister is missing, someone is _dead,_ there are guards hurt and unconscious and _missing,_ and Harry feels the ghost of that phantom pain. But he can’t think about that right now — not when his sister is fucking _gone,_ and no one knows where her almost-fiancé is.

“How the hell do you lose a princess?” Harry means to yell, but he seems to have lost his voice, because his words come out in a hoarse whisper. He’s moving in the direction of Gemma’s rooms, and when a hand catches him by the elbow _again,_ Harry’s vision goes blurry for a moment. He whirls around, heart beating painfully against his ribs and meets nine pairs of eyes. “Do _not_ try and stop me again, or I promise you, I swear, I will ruin your lives. Do not follow me. Don’t let me see your faces tonight. _Leave.”_

And, the thing is, they don’t have a choice — not when he uses this voice, and that’s why Harry hates it, but he doesn’t feel guilty right now. He can’t afford to. He might later, but right now, all he can think about is Gemma and the pain: dull, distant ache in his temple and the blow he felt to his stomach. The fast walk to Gemma’s rooms turns into a sprint, and when Harry gets there, he feels his heart lurch. A slew of guards stands outside, their eyes alert and weapons poised to attack, and they startle upon seeing Harry. 

“Your Highness,” one of them starts, and Harry doesn’t even _know_ him by name, is the thing, and it only adds to his irritation, “You can’t —”

“If you’re about to tell me what I can and can’t do in my own home,” Harry cuts him off, the last of his patience finally running out, “I won’t hesitate to use your own crossbow on you.” The fact that he can’t actually use a crossbow is a moot point. Pushing past the cluster of men, Harry quite literally stumbles into his sister’s chambers and immediately wishes he could turn back time somehow. There’s splatters of crimson on the ivory rug and marble floor, almost like someone deliberately sprinkled them, and the part of Harry that’s still thinking rationally assumes the blood belongs — belonged? — to the guard that was captured. Some feet away, near the foot of Gemma’s bed, lies a small body, unnaturally still, its arm and neck twisted at a strange angle. Nothing else seems to be amiss — at least not that Harry can tell. 

“What in the hell's name happened, Niall?” Harry finds himself asking. 

Niall doesn’t even glance Harry’s way, opting to stay kneeling by the handmaiden’s — Nadia’s — unmoving form. There’s no blood on her, not a single drop, and Harry watches as Niall reaches out to touch her head, watches as it lolls easily to the side. 

“Niall,” Harry says again, and this time Niall looks up. In twenty-two years of life, Harry doesn’t think he has ever seen Niall’s so visibly _furious,_ his usually bright eyes now stormy, mouth set in an angry line. 

“I warned them it was a bad idea,” Niall mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself, but then his eyes cut through Harry’s, and he says again, louder, “I fucking _told_ them it was a bad fucking idea, and they didn’t fucking listen to me. It’s not like I’m the Captain of the entire fucking Guard, or something.” He rubs a hand down his face, fingertips dragging against his pale skin, and Harry doesn’t know what he’s talking about — who didn’t listen to him, but before he can ask or scream in frustration, Niall holds out a folded scrap of paper. 

Harry takes it, straightens out the yellowish parchment and reads the two sentences written in slanted, blank ink. 

_Your Majesty,_

_If you care for the safety and well-being of Her Highness Princess Gemma, you will send the captain of your guard, unarmed, to a location that will be disclosed to you in the near future. Any attempts at trying to locate the princess’ whereabouts will result in nothing but disastrous consequences for Her Highness._

_Best,_

_Yours Truly_

At the bottom of the paper, in the very center, is a russet-colored seal depicting two crescent moons intersecting, and Harry has never seen it before in his life. It only helps to increase his confusion, and he feels panic bubbling in his chest. 

“What does it mean?” he asks Niall, who’s running his thumb over Nadia’s brow bone, bottom lip caught between his teeth. A sudden wave of sorrow hits Harry as realizes that Nadia is _dead —_ that someone entered his home and actually ended the life of someone he deeply cares about. He feels his eyes sting as they well up with tears, and he blinks them away and drops to his knees beside his friend. “Who did this, Niall?” 

Niall just shakes his head, but it isn’t defeat making his shoulders sag. No, it’s something else, something ugly, and Harry isn’t sure he wants to know, but he has to. His _sister_ is just gone without a trace, and there’s the thought of the missing guard, but that doesn’t matter — not when Gemma’s life is hanging in the balance. 

“I told your mother not to allow an open invitation,” Niall says finally, almost bitterly. “I told her it wasn’t a smart move — not on a night like this with so many guests already invited. We have another royal family in the palace, for fuck’s sake, and it _shouldn’t_ have been an open invitation. And if it had to be, she should have let only _me_ oversee all the security procedures.” Niall stops, takes a deep breath, and then: “She let the other lad call the shots, allowed him to dictate half the protocol, and look what’s happened.” 

“You’re saying this was just a security breach? That someone just waltzed in and whisked a heavily guarded, soon-to-be-married princess away without being spotted by anyone?” 

“I don’t know!” Niall shouts, and Harry flinches, because Niall doesn’t shout at him, not ever; Harry outranks him by far too much for Niall to be able to shout at him. Niall realizes this half a second later, and he mumbles an apology, fingers still touching Nadia. Harry puts his hand atop Niall’s and squeezes. “This shouldn’t have happened,” Niall says quietly then, “Gemma had eleven men assigned to her tonight, I hand-picked them just for tonight, and no one should have been able to get to her. No one should’ve been able to just take her away, unseen.” Ice washes over Harry — settles in his blood as the implication of Niall’s words sinks in. “Someone knew it was an open invitation, someone knew all the security procedures, someone knew who was assigned to her. Something went perfectly, conveniently wrong.” 

“Are you saying — does this mean someone on the inside did this?” Harry doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know what security measures were put in place and, quite frankly, doesn’t care. His palms are clammy, there’s a headache blooming behind his eyelids and sleep sounds very appealing, but he needs to know where the hell Gemma is. 

“I don’t know what I’m saying,” Niall pulls his hand away and stands up, pulling Harry to his feet as well. “I need to talk to your mother, figure out what we’re going to do next and how to find Gemma.”

“What about her?” Harry stares down at Nadia, his throat heavy with undeserved guilt, and he feels more than sees Niall dig the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

“I can’t — I need to know what the fuck happened to Tomlinson, and I need to figure out where Prince Charming went. I’ll have someone find her family, and, fuck, Harry, I don’t know. I have other things to worry about right now.” He does, Harry knows he does, but the words still tug painfully at Harry’s heartstrings, because he _knows_ Nadia — has known her since they were children. “I’m sorry,” Niall tells him again, because he knows, too. 

“I’ll talk to her family,” Harry says softly. 

“I’m sorry,” Niall whispers, looking down at Nadia, and Harry doesn’t know who he’s speaking to this time. Then Niall’s talking to a group of guards, giving orders about this and that, and Harry’s not really paying much attention. He replays Niall’s previous words, picks them apart for anything meaningful and comes up blank. 

“Who’s Tomlinson?” Harry asks when they finally leave Gemma’s chambers, heading down in the direction of the throne room. The name sounds vaguely familiar, like he’s heard it in passing, but there’s no face Harry can connect it to. 

“The only guard who went bloody missing along with your sister,” Niall tells him, and he sounds exhausted. “He’s a good lad, always on top of his assignments, and I thought he’d be good tonight with Gemma. Dunno why he fucking disappeared. Or if he was taken too, then, I mean, why? What would they want with him?” 

Harry doesn’t know, and that seems to be a recurring theme tonight. He doesn’t know who Tomlinson is, probably wouldn’t recognize the man if he was standing two feet from Harry, but there’s a nagging feeling in his stomach that Harry can’t understand. He doesn’t know if he should tell Niall what happened earlier in the ballroom before all hell broke loose — how he felt that horrible pain, how a guard disappeared, how so many got hurt, how it all seems connected. 

_Bigger things than you are at stake,_ a part of him chides, _focus on your sister._

So, Harry forgets. Or tries to. 

▴▴▴

The throne room, which is usually occupied only by Harry’s mother and a select few individuals, is crowded with the king and queen of Novac, along with some of their advisors and members of the guard. Harry spots his mother on the golden throne, sitting alone, worry evident on her face. Harry makes his way straight to the throne and takes a seat by her, wrapping an arm around her as she leans her head against his shoulder. She doesn’t say anything, and that’s fine, because Harry doesn’t know what he could possibly say to comfort her in this moment. He watches Queen Giovanna speaking quietly with King Francis, sat on the dais along the throne. He wonders if Gemma and Liam are together, if they were kidnapped by the same people — if, indeed, Liam has been kidnapped. 

Niall kneels in front of the queen and Harry, voice quiet when he asks, “Are we waiting for someone?” 

“No,” says Harry’s mother. She sounds bone-tired, like she hasn’t slept in years, and suddenly Harry feels the same way. He craves his bed — craves the sweet oblivion of sleep more than anything. 

Harry watches Niall march to the other captain, and he takes a minute to catalogue this moment somewhere safe in his mind. The man is definitely older than Niall by at least a decade, his black beard trimmed impeccably and his eyes far too guarded for Harry to read anything in them. His uniform is pale blue, a bit like the one Harry had seen that nameless boy in earlier, but this man has a sword hanging at his hip, his hand resting casually on its hilt in a way that isn’t casual at all. The belt on his waist has at least two small daggers, and Harry wouldn’t be surprised if he has more hidden in his sleeves and boots. He nods his head when Niall approaches him, and it almost looks respectful rather than condescending, but the handshake that follows is anything but. 

They talk briefly, and Harry can’t hear what either man says, but he knows the exchange isn’t friendly. Niall looks angry from there, his jaw locked, and the other captain — his name is Mali, Harry thinks — is frowning, gesturing indignantly at the men under his command. Then Niall is walking back to Harry and Anne, and he gives Anne the folded letter from Gemma’s captor. Anne reads it and says nothing, and Harry takes her hand in his. It’s not much, but it helps Harry breathe a little easier. 

“I’m putting together a search party,” Niall speaks up finally when Anne stays silent, and that’s what finally snaps her out of her inner turmoil. 

“Whoever this is, they explicitly advised against doing anything of the sort,” she says, and her voice now holds all the royal prestige that her position demands. She squeezes Harry’s hand once before letting go and getting to her feet. Harry stays seated, though he knows the protocol asks that he stand as well. He’s just too tired for it right now. “There will be no search parties.”

Harry doesn’t like those words.

“They can’t have gone far,” Niall argues, and he’s probably right, as usual. “I don’t know how much assistance they had, or from whom, or even how many people we’re looking at, but they can’t have gotten far from the palace — not yet. We can catch them.”

“No.” That one word is final, absolute, and it doesn’t sit well with Harry, so much so that he stands up and puts a hand on his mother’s shoulder. 

“You’re saying...you want them to get away with this? You want us to submit to them and not look for her?” Harry finds himself saying.

“It’s not submission, son. It’s caution. We don’t know who they are and what they’re capable of; I’m not willing to risk any lives until we know more. And they’re not likely to hurt Gemma until we refuse whatever demand they are inevitably going to make.” 

“You’re willing to gamble with Gemma’s safety based on likelihood? Mother —”

“Harry,” she interrupts him, and there’s no room for negotiation in that voice, no leniency. “We’re going to wait until we have more information. Niall will meet with them when they ask, and we’re going to be ready with a plan when that time comes.”

Every part of Harry wants to argue, wants to protest against this, because he can’t just sit back on his arse when his sister is God-knows-where with God-knows-who, and he has to do _something_ to help her. He wants to go out and search for her himself, but he can’t — not when he wouldn’t have the slightest idea where to begin. But that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t try, at least. Harry’s about to say just that when pain slowly blooms in his temple and behind his eyelids, and the muscles in his abdomen tighten when he feels a ripple of pain there, too. Unlike last time, now his wrists sting, as well, like they’re tied with something rough and he keeps twisting them against the material. 

For a terrifying moment, Harry wonders if his person is one of the guards who got hurt tonight. He banishes that thought just as quickly as it came, because it’s all so overwhelming, suddenly. He needs to focus on Gemma. She’s the one who matters right now. 

Harry doesn’t wait around to hear them discuss Liam’s fate and what they’re going to do to find him. He isn’t particularly fond of King Francis and Queen Giovanna, even though Liam seems like a decent enough person. There’s something about the king and queen of Novac that rubs Harry the wrong way, though he doesn’t quite know how to explain that to anyone else. Maybe it’s the way Fracis’ eyes track every movement in the room or maybe it’s the way Giovanna stays close to Harry’s mother, or perhaps it’s the way they both watch Niall curiously or maybe it’s the fact that they don’t look nearly half as worried as they should. Maybe it’s just intuition or maybe it’s paranoia. Harry doesn’t know and doesn’t want to think about the pair of them any longer. Instead, he bids his mother goodnight and heads to his room, followed by no less than ten members of the royal guard. (Niall stays in the throne room this time.)

As soon as Harry enters his rooms, he’s greeted with the sight of a white ball of fur running towards him and he bends down to catch her in his arms. Primrose licks at his face, quiet sounds of contentment leaving her mouth when Harry scratches behind her ears. “Hello, my love,” he croons, and the dog whimpers in response, and Harry would know the sound in his sleep. “I know, I’m sorry. I missed you too.” He kisses her nose before setting her down again. “I’ll go change, and then it’s bedtime, yeah?”

After giving her another quick cuddle, Harry makes his way to his dressing room and peels off the layers of clothes he’s got on. His white shirt is stuck disgustingly to his arm, courtesy of whomever spilled their drink on him earlier. Instead of taking a bath like he usually would, Harry simply wets the clean portion of the shirt and wipes his arm and neck clean until the stickiness is gone. He puts on his favorite pink, silk top and white trousers and settles under the blankets with Primrose curled in a ball on his chest. 

“It’s been an exhausting night,” he tells her and scratches her gently. She nuzzles her face into Harry’s neck, and he holds her closer, and if he focuses on how soft her fur is under his hand and how warm she is on top of him, he can almost forget the sharp spikes of pain shooting through his body — a jab to his chest, something angrily twisting his arm, an explosion in his head and stars behind his eyelids. It’s a lot, it’s _so much,_ and he can’t sleep when his mind is racing like this, so he pushes away worries about Gemma and begs his menace of a person to just take a break for a bit. He thinks of Darling, thinks of taking her out into the countryside tomorrow, or maybe to look around for Gemma. Eventually, the phantom pain gives way to exhaustion, and he slips into oblivion. 

It’s a fitful sleep, though, marred by sudden pangs of anguish that aren’t real — not for Harry, but someone out there, somewhere, is hurting tremendously. He jerks awake at one point when a sharp, son-of-a-bitch pain radiates in his skull, as though someone just yanked at his hair painfully, almost like they want to rip it from the root, and, _god,_ it hurts. But no one’s here; Harry’s alone and trying to hold back tears, because it’s been such a long fucking night, and whoever shares a part of Harry’s soul keeps fucking hurting. They need to stop, need to just stop getting themself into these fucking _situations,_ because Harry doesn’t know how much more of their pain he can stomach. It subsides though — dulls down to a quiet ache, and Harry thinks he can ignore it if he tries hard enough, if he focuses on something else. A minute or maybe an hour passes, and he’s trying to regulate his breathing when he bolts upright in bed, not managing to bite down on his lip in time to stop the strangled scream that escapes him and frightens his dog. It doesn’t matter, though, he doesn’t really care — _can’t_ care — because there’s a searing pain in his back, like someone sliced his skin open, and it hurts, hurts, _hurts,_ and Primrose is whimpering, trying to climb into Harry’s lap and lick at his face, and it just hurts like fucking hell, and Harry’s getting out of bed, stumbling around in the darkened room until he’s stepping out into the hallway barefooted, where he’s greeted by his guards. 

“Your Highness,” Castro starts, but Harry has no patience for protocol right now, does not care in the slightest about formalities. 

“The infirmary,” he hisses, clenching his fists so tight his nails dig into the skin. “I need to go to the infirmary right now.”

“Sir, are you alright?”

“If I were alright, I wouldn’t be going to the infirmary in the middle of the damn night.” 

His vision is swimming with unshed tears, but it doesn’t matter because the pain that’s always been a ghostly phantom feels so real, feels like someone stuck a knife in Harry’s back and dragged it down, cutting in deep and spilling blood. _Be okay,_ he thinks belatedly, _be alive, for heaven’s sake, don’t die on me,_ because if Harry’s back hurts this much, then he can’t even imagine what hell the other person must be going through. _What are you doing?_ Harry wonders frustratedly and wishes he could hide them away from the world, keep them safe from all the hurt. 

He and the guards walk down the velvety, carpeted hallway, heading towards the spiraling stairway when it feels like Harry’s back is split open, the imaginary cuts on it stretched wide. But he’s not imagining it; it’s so real, and he’s on his knees choking and sobbing and whimpering, and his guards are trying to pull him up, but he can’t get up. It _hurts_. And then there’s footsteps stopping in front of him and Niall’s voice demanding, “What the bloody hell is happening here?” 

One of the guards starts explaining the situation, but Harry doesn’t know how he could possibly explain what none of them know, so he interrupts. 

“Niall, I need...I need to see Arfa. I need — oh, it _hurts,_ Niall, make it _stop,_ ” he pleads from the floor. 

Pale fingers wrap around his wrists and Niall squeezes hard enough to make Harry look up at him. Niall looks concerned, brows knitted in confusion, and his eyes are worried. “What’s wrong?” 

“It hurts,” Harry cries, doesn’t care that members of the royal guard are watching their crown prince have a breakdown in the middle of the night. “Knock me out, Niall, do something and make it _stop,_ ” he begs again, “because it keeps hurting, my person is _hurting_ and having their back ripped open, and I can’t stand it. Do _something,_ please — anything to make it fucking stop.”

“Who’s hurting?” Niall asks, “What’s happening, H, who is it?”

“I don’t know, I don’t _know,_ but, please, just — I need to go to the infirmary, please.” 

“Okay, okay, let’s go, we’ll get you taken care of.” Niall stands up and pulls Harry to his feet, securing an arm around Harry’s waist and supporting most of his weight. The guards don’t leave a wide breadth between themselves and Harry, which is unusual, and he wants them gone — wants them far away, but he doesn’t have it in himself to tell them to leave. “Where does it hurt? What happened?” 

“My back, I don’t — it’s not my —”

There’s another searing sting on his back that makes Harry curl in on himself, and a tiny voice in his head whispers, _that’s probably what it feels like to be whipped,_ and then there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. There’s no pain, and it’s like there never was. But it was. Harry felt it. 

_Be alive, be alive, be alive, please be alive —_

“It’s gone,” he says, but it comes out in a breathy sob. He looks at Niall, who’s staring back at him with bewildered eyes. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Harry says again, voice stronger and steadier. “It’s just — I don’t know how to explain it, but it just stopped hurting.”

Niall eyes him warily, obviously unsure if he should be taking Harry at his word, but he doesn’t have much choice. Niall cracks a smile, but it’s strained and doesn’t reach his eyes and Harry doesn’t blame him. “What happened? Are we still going to see Arfa?”

“Yes, yes, I need...you need to make sure I fall asleep and don’t wake up before noon,” Harry says hurriedly and continues towards the staircase. When Niall still doesn’t seem satisfied, Harry glances at his guards, “Could you, please, give us some space to talk? You can still come with me if you want, but just stay back, please.” When there’s some distance between the pair of them and the guards, Harry tries his best to explain his nightmare of a night to Niall as best as he can. “You know how, sometimes, I feel it when my person — my soulmate, whatever — gets hurt? They’re hurt, Niall. I don’t know how, or why, because I still don’t know who they are, but — fuck. Niall, someone’s hurting them so much.”

Harry feels ice wash down his spine as realization hits him. 

“Oh, my god, Niall, it just stopped,” he gasps, clinging to Niall for support, “It just stopped hurting. Oh, _god,_ what if something happened to them?” 

Walking down the spiraling stairway takes every bit of Harry’s concentration so he doesn’t end up tumbling down, but he’s distracted — _worried —_ about what this sudden lack of pain could mean. 

“I’m sure they’ll be okay, Harry,” Niall says, and he’s probably trying to be comforting, but the words sound more like a question than anything. Because no one really, truly believes Harry. He knows. Everyone knows, really, that there is some truth to what he says — that he can feel his soulmate’s pain. But no one really understands how it’s possible when they don’t know each other. It’s practically unheard of to feel someone else’s pain before meeting them, and Harry has never felt anything of this magnitude before. 

“I need to find them, Niall,” Harry says for the millionth time. He just needs to find them, keep them safe, make sure no one hurts them again. 

“We will, I promise.” And maybe Niall really believes him now, will really help him now. 

They walk quietly the rest of the way to the eastern wing of the castle where the infirmary is situated, and Harry doesn’t miss the excessive number of guards stationed every at turn, every doorway, every window. They’re all wearing the navy blue coats which means they’re all Niall’s men. It also means that Niall called in extra guards after what happened earlier and is doubling safety measures, not trusting the Captain from Novac to do the job right. If Harry weren’t so fatigued from the events of the last few hours, he would ask Niall about it, try to get some answers. But all he wants right now is a sedative that will knock him out and make him incapable of feeling anything for hours. 

When they get to the infirmary, Arfa, the young medic, is asleep too because it’s an ungodly hour at night, but she wakes up and is ready to tend to Harry immediately. She looks alarmed to see Niall and Harry there at this time, but doesn’t miss a beat before she’s moving around and clearing space. “I’m so very sorry, I just dozed off,” she apologizes once Harry is seated and leaning back on one of the beds. 

“It’s the middle of the night — you’re allowed to sleep,” Harry tells her, and he’s surprised at himself for attempting jokes because just a little while earlier, he was writhing in pain. “You can sleep after you help me sleep.” 

“What’s giving you trouble?” she asks, and she sounds so much like her mother, Nora, used to, back when Harry was younger and her mother was in charge of this place. They look alike too, Harry always notices: same olive skin, same almond-shaped eyes the exact same shade of brown, same delicate nose. 

“Something I can’t really explain,” Harry tells her and it’s only half a lie, so he gives her a small smile. He _can_ explain, he just doesn’t want to right now. “I just need you to give me something very strong that’ll make me sleep like a baby.”

“Babies wake up a lot, Your Highness,” she replies with a tiny smile of her own. Harry likes her. Adores her. Maybe one day he can make a real friend out of her and have her refer to him by his actual name. “But could you tell me what’s wrong so I can give you what is appropriate?”

“I don’t... there’s an unimaginable pain in my back, but I’m not sure where it’s coming from, to be honest. Just give me a powerful tonic or, I don’t know, a sedative. Or like, a paralytic or something,” Harry says. He doesn’t know how to explain to Arfa that he’s feeling someone else get tortured. He’s sure she would understand to an extent, if he took the time to spell it out for her, but he doesn’t want to. She eyes him dubiously for a minute before sighing. Harry silently watches her mix herbs and fluids together, and normally he would ask her what she’s doing, but not today. He looks at Niall instead, who’s standing by the door with his eyes trailing Arfa’s movements. “Could you please check on Prim? Make sure she’s okay.” 

The thing is, Harry’s dog is spoiled. She adores Harry and, therefore, she likes Niall well enough. She tolerates Harry’s mother and sister, but she won’t spare anyone else a single glance. She hardly leaves Harry’s rooms if he isn’t the one taking her places, prefers to just entertain herself. 

Niall nods at Harry’s words, but his eyes stay on Arfa, who gives Harry a pale-green potion of sorts, and it looks positively vile. “This should keep you asleep for at least seven hours.” 

“Thank you,” he says. Then he holds his breath and drinks it all in one go. Strangely, it’s almost tasteless, like water, and Harry’s glad for it. 

When Arfa realizes Harry doesn’t plan on returning to his own private bed tonight, she says, “I’ll get you some more blankets,” because Harry’s only wearing his flimsy, silky clothes, and it’s the middle of winter. 

“Thank you, Arfa,” he says genuinely and then turns to Niall once more. “Can you also call off your watchdogs? I don’t need ten of them following me everywhere I go.” 

“I’m trying to keep you safe, you know,” Niall says. Harry does know, so he doesn’t argue about it, but looks at Niall with pleading eyes. It must do something because Niall sighs and says, “No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.” With that, he leaves after another glance at Arfa and Harry tries to get comfortable on the small bed. It’s much smaller than his own and the sheets are made of cotton instead of silk, but it’s okay. As long as he can sleep without feeling like someone’s shredding his skin open, it’s okay. There’s an unsettling feeling in his chest, an ugly premonition, and he tries not to dwell on it. It doesn’t take long for his body to relax, though, and he feels his eyelids getting heavier by the minute. Soon, darkness envelops him. 

▴▴▴

The next morning is, well, it’s not morning when Harry wakes up. It’s well past noon, which is great, because that means the day will be that much shorter and he can go back to sleep that much earlier, but it also means less time to go out and get answers about his sister’s whereabouts. After returning to his own room and taking a much-needed bath, Harry gets dressed comfortably in a silvery, silk top underneath his forest-green coat. The coat, accented with gold, is actually a favorite of his because it nicely brings out his eyes, makes them shine a bit brighter. He could use some shine today, he thinks. The ache in his back is dull, almost muted, like the connection between him and his person is fragile at the moment. He doesn’t know what it means. And because it’s cold, Harry wraps a charcoal scarf around his neck. Before leaving his rooms again, he picks up his dog and gives her an abundance of kisses for the day. 

“Be good, alright? Guess how much I love you.” She barks quietly in his ear, licking up the side of his face, her little tail wagging. “That’s right, yes: I love you more than all the love in the world.” 

Harry goes to see his mother first, but when he gets to the throne room, he learns that she’s in the middle of a private conversation with the other royal family and has asked for no interruptions, so Harry turns away. Flanked by guards on either side (fewer than last night), he makes his way out of the castle and strolls through the gardens and towards the stables. The gardens have seen much better days, if he’s being honest, because winter just drains all life out of things. They look a bit dreary, kind of forlorn, a bit like how Harry feels. There’s tension in the atmosphere that he doesn’t like, and he knows it won’t disappear until Gemma gets back. 

_You need to find her soon,_ he tells himself. He has to. Others might be content to wait for another message from her captives, but he can’t sit on his hands and let them dictate the terms. 

Right now, though, he has other things to do first. He needs to visit Nadia’s family, tell them what happened last night, even though he isn’t entirely sure himself. Maybe he should wait until he knows more, until he can give them something more than empty comfort, but he can’t. He can’t just not tell them she isn’t alive anymore. 

Harry finds Darling stretched out on the ground in the corner of her stall, her head hung low and eyes closed. Sleeping, maybe, because she doesn’t immediately stand up when Harry leans against the barrier keeping her in. He clicks his fingers twice and whistles, watching her eyes fly open. She doesn’t move, just gazes at Harry from her spot on the ground, and it makes him feel more grounded than anything else has in the last twenty-four hours. She’s upset with him though, Harry can tell, because he didn’t come see her yesterday at all. He didn’t have a chance. So, he sighs and pushes past the wooden door. She continues staring at him until he crouches down in front of her and holds out his hand in front of him in a silent invitation. A moment later, Harry hears her sigh, too, and she nickers quietly before raising her head and gently pressing her forehead against Harry’s palm. 

“Hello, my Darling,” Harry murmurs. She makes a small sound of contentment at the sound of her name, and Harry smiles, leaning forward just a little bit until she raises herself enough to nuzzle the side of her head against Harry’s. He knows he’s the only person she trusts enough to do this with, as he’s seen grown men get knocked off their feet for getting too close to her, so he doesn’t take the gesture for granted. “Up for an adventure?” he asks her, and she responds by nudging Harry’s head to the side and nosing at his neck. “Let’s go for a walk.” 

Harry leans back and gets to his feet, taking a few steps back and giving Darling space to stand up. When she does, Harry smiles at her and steps closer to carefully wind his arms around her neck. That is also something only Harry has the privilege of being able to do, and he cherishes it. Harry gives her a tiny kiss and then gets her ready. She isn’t giving him the cold shoulder, which is good, because he really could use her company. 

“May I?” he asks, standing on her left side, and he knows she understands him, even if she does nothing at first. When Harry stays there and combs his fingers through her mane, she turns her head to look at him with wounded eyes, like she’s still upset with him but then lowers her head in permission. Harry gives her a pat before securing and mounting the saddle and letting her lead the way out of the stables, followed by a trio of guards. There are two more waiting right outside, and all five of them have their own horses now. 

“I don’t mind all of you coming with me today,” Harry says, and it’s only half a lie, but he says it because he knows everyone is feeling unsettled by what happened last night, and these men are probably under strict orders from Niall. Sometimes it feels like Niall has more authority than Harry, which is absolutely absurd, but then again, it’s really not. There’s a reason Niall became Captain of the Guard at such a young age. “But I do ask that you give me a generous amount of space, please,” Harry adds. “Come with me, but stay back. That’s all I ask.”

Usually Harry goes with Niall, just the two of them and their beloved horses. Niall is nowhere to be found today, though, so Harry has to make do on his own. They don’t go straight to Nadia’s house. Darling walks them out of the palace gates at a leisurely pace before trotting down the street. Harry doesn’t even have to direct her how before she’s heading for the vast countryside. The guards do keep their distance, and that’s good — it’s great because Harry can pretend they aren’t there at all, that he’s alone with his best friend. 

Before long, Darling is galloping through the empty fields while Harry’s guards keep circling nearby. 

It’s refreshing — the cold, winter wind whistling through his hair, nipping at his face, keeping his thoughts occupied. It’s not enough to make him forget entirely, but it’s something. He doesn’t for a moment forget that his sister is missing, but he’s able to set aside other things. He should have worn a hat, he thinks, because the wind is harsh and unforgiving against his ears. Darling doesn’t seem to mind, though, as she flies down the snowy field with no intention of stopping any time soon. 

They’re nearly at the giant oak tree when there’s a sudden painful sting on Harry’s back, making him unintentionally tug on Darling’s reigns and making her come to an immediate halt. It’s not horrible — it’s nowhere near as bad as it was last night, but, _god,_ it still hurts. He lets himself fall forward, hunched over her crest in pain. Darling snorts quietly, turning her head to try and lift Harry into a sitting position. 

“I’m okay, love,” he tells her weakly and runs his fingers through her pretty, white mane to comfort them both. He isn’t okay, though. He isn’t. His back stings like it’s been cut and then soaked in vinegar. “Let’s go home, Darling.”

There’s another worried whine when Harry doesn’t sit up properly, but she turns around and breaks into a careful jog. 

Harry hears the telltale clacking of approaching footsteps and then comes Castro’s voice: “Your Highness, is everything alright?” It doesn’t help that they saw him lose his mind last night, so he can’t lie to them. 

“Just not feeling great,” he says and leaves it at that. Darling doesn’t run back to the palace, despite half-hearted encouragements from Harry, who just wants to find Arfa again and ask her to work her magic once more. Instead, she continues at her preferred pace, slowing down every so often to glance back at Harry. Harry loves her fiercely. When they near the palace, she doesn’t stop to let Harry down like she usually does. On any given day, when they get back from their run, Harry walks her back inside her stall. Today, she doesn’t give him a chance to get down and keeps walking until she’s in her stall. Harry gets down then, trying to ignore the pain for a minute and hugs her again, letting his fingertips press into the sweet spot near her mane. 

“I’ll come back soon? Promise.” She lets her muzzle sit on Harry’s neck, and he knows she’s listening. “Be good for me. Bye, Darling.” He gives her a kiss and then rushes out of the stables. 

Harry’s on his way to the infirmary again, but he doesn’t make it there. He’s barely inside the door, turning the corner, when he quite literally runs into Niall, who almost shouts, “Where have you been?” 

“Meant to see Nadia’s family, but didn’t quite get there,” he winces when there’s another jab on his back, this one near the bottom on his spine. His wrists sting, too, but that’s nothing compared to his back. “Need to see Arfa — my back’s killing me again.” 

Something unpleasant flickers through Niall’s eyes, far too quick for Harry to be able to decipher it. “She’s, um, busy at the moment. You’ll have to wait.”

And that’s not good. That’s not good for so many reasons, but Harry can’t wait. “Who’s hurt?” he asks, because someone is, or else she wouldn’t be busy. “What’s wrong?” 

Niall stares at him unblinkingly, like he doesn’t know what to say or if to say it at all. Harry stares back, waiting. He’s known Niall long enough; the man can hold on his own at all times, but the disadvantage of being someone’s best friend is that you can break their guard down. So, Harry waits, gnawing on his lip and curling his palms into fists to focus on his own pain. Then, after ages pass, Niall sighs. “Tomlinson came back.”

And Harry’s about to ask who, before Niall’s explanation from last night comes rushing back to him and knocks the wind out of him. All he can do is blink at Niall, silently asking for more than just three words, because that man was with Harry’s sister last night. If he’s back, then where is Gemma? How is he back? Why didn’t Harry know about this sooner? 

“Arfa is with him,” Niall says. “She’s dressing his wounds,” but Harry’s already walking away. “Where’re you off to now?”

“To find him.”

“He’s not in a holding cell,” Niall calls from behind him and Harry stills. _He’s not in a holding cell._ Why the hell not? Harry turns around to face Niall again, who looks crestfallen for reasons Harry can’t imagine. He runs both hands through his brown hair before dragging them down his face, frustration evident in his actions. Harry simply waits because he knows there’s more. There’s a particularly nasty sting along his shoulder blades, but Harry can’t focus on it because Niall speaks up at the same time. “I moved him to a private room last night. He needs to heal.”

 _He can heal after I’ve found my sister,_ Harry thinks selfishly. “Where is he? I need to talk to him.”

“He needs to heal, Harry, and I’ve already talked to him,” Niall says with a shake of his head, and it doesn’t make sense. Harry doesn’t know this Tomlinson man, but what he does know is that this man could be the key to finding his sister. How could Niall not be more concerned about that particular bit? “And you need to eat,” Niall adds. “You aren’t allowed to see him.”

“On whose orders?” Harry demands. 

Niall rests on a hand on the hilt of his sword, and it’s a move Harry has seen countless times. “Mine. As Captain of the Guard, I’m forbidding you from entering his room until I say otherwise.”

And that’s what does it for Harry. He had an inkling that something strange was happening, but now he knows for certain. Niall never commands him to do anything, nor does he ever ‘forbid’ Harry from doing something. Whoever this Tomlinson person is, and whatever he knows, Niall clearly doesn’t want Harry to know, which is why he has to know. Harry blinks at Niall and pushes his guilt aside, letting their gazes lock before Niall can look away and says, very deliberately, “Take me to his room.” 

Harry doesn’t like this side of him, doesn’t pride himself on manipulating others and does his best to avoid using the trick on his loved ones, but he’s desperate. He’s in pain and he needs answers. Niall has no choice but to lead Harry to wherever Tomlinson is. They walk through the heavily guarded halls of the West Wing until Niall stops outside one of the many rooms reserved for guests and other people. He leaves Niall and the rest of the guards in the hall before stepping inside the dimly lit room. 

There’s a four-poster bed in the center of the room, adorned with cream-colored sheets and curtains. Arfa is kneeling by its side, her hands moving adeptly and delicately over the man’s wrist. Harry can’t see the man’s face, but he’s laying down on his stomach. What Harry can see from where he’s standing is this: the man’s back is bare, and even from the distance, Harry can vaguely make out the jagged cuts on it. Harry feels unsteady at the wild possibility his heart throws at him, and he shoves it aside because it can’t possibly be. 

“Hello, Arfa,” he greets softly so as not to startle them. The medic still jumps but then smiles at Harry. 

“Hello, Your Highness. I’m nearly done,” she says. Harry watches her work, even though he can’t really see anything clearly from here. She moves around the bed to tend to the man’s other wrist, and when she touches it, there’s a pang in Harry’s own right wrist. 

His heart lurches. The world tips on its axis a little bit. 

Harry stands there, nearly breathless, until Arfa stands up and says, “If you wish to speak with him, I think you should do it in the next few minutes. I’m hoping he’ll fall asleep soon, so he’s not hurting so much.”

“Thank you, Arfa.” 

She doesn’t leave though. She asks the man to sit up, and he does so with great difficulty. Harry can hear the man groaning when he tries to sit upright, and if there’s a tangible pain that Harry feels in his back that knocks every last bit of air out of him, then no one needs to know. From his position near the door, Harry can just make out the dark lines stitched into the man’s flesh, and it makes his stomach twist unpleasantly. He watches as Arfa carefully wraps the man’s torso with bandages, and every firm press of her hands feels like flames licking up Harry’s back. 

Harry feels dizzy. The world is still tilted sideways. 

Arfa continues folding the white clothes around the man’s lacerate back, and Harry can’t look away, can’t even blink because his mind is racing with a million thoughts. The pain ghosting over his own back simultaneously feels like a phantom and a brutal reality. 

Finally, finally, Arfa helps Tomlinson lay back down on his stomach. “It shouldn’t hurt too much soon,” she tells him softly. Then she steps out of the room, and then it’s just Harry and Tomlinson. 

Harry’s heart is crashing against his ribs hard enough to bruise. 

With a trembling breath, Harry walks fully into the room and crosses over to the bed where Arfa was kneeling when he entered. The room isn’t bright, but he can see Tomlinson’s face perfectly now, but he doesn’t recognize the man. What he sees is a bruised and blackened eye almost swollen shut. His lip is split open, face damaged by a million nicks and cuts. What Harry’s eyes get glued to is the man’s ravaged back, because now he can see a few dark splotches seeping through the otherwise clean bandage, and Harry feels sick. He feels horrified, and without even realizing it, he’s on his knees, fingers reaching for the bandaged wrist. He tightens his fingers around it, hoping and praying he’s wrong, but when pain shoots up his own wrist, Harry’s breath gets caught in his throat. 

_You look like you’re mine,_ he thinks. 

Tomlinson makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, and Harry immediately loosens his grip. 

“Where does it hurt?” Harry asks, because he needs to know, needs to somehow make it better. That was the promise he made to himself years ago. 

“Everywhere,” Tomlinson wheezes, “It...it’s all hurt.” 

“Hey. Look at me,” Harry tries to be gentle, but he needs the man to look him in the eye. He can’t take anyone’s pain away, but he can help. He can try. When Tomlinson squeezes his eyes shut even more, Harry touches his injured cheek softly. “Look at me,” he repeats. Tomlinson’s eyes crack open, and he tilts his head back a little to look at Harry a little better, and Harry feels his heart cave. In the dim light, his eyes are so, so blue. Before he slips from consciousness, Harry watches his eyes gloss over, and he tells him, “You don’t feel any pain. It doesn’t hurt anywhere.” 

And, then, a moment later, the sharp pain in Harry’s own body gets muted. He lets out a quiet sob as the man in front of him lets his eyes close, and Harry thinks, _who did this to you?_

There’s an ugly, vicious feeling in Harry’s chest, curling around his heart like a vice. 

▴▴▴

Some time later, Harry finds an infuriated Niall on his rug, entertaining an agitated Primrose. She jumps at him the moment he’s through the door, yelping excitedly and licking at his chin. Harry can feel Niall’s stony gaze on him, so he pays attention to the dog instead, setting her down for a moment so he can shrug off his coat and let it fall unceremoniously onto the floor. He toes off his shoes, too, and climbs into the bed, huddling underneath the blankets as Primrose clambers onto his chest. 

“Harry,” Niall says from the floor, and Harry doesn’t respond. He’s irritated — no, he’s furious with Niall, and he doesn’t feel quite ready to talk about anything that just happened. He knows his sister is still missing, he doesn’t know if they’ve made any progress towards finding her, but he does know that he doesn’t want to talk to Niall Horan right now. He pets Primrose, humming a lullaby he knows usually puts her to sleep. 

“Harry,” Niall calls again, this time with an air of command in his tone, and Harry bites back the snapping response dangling at the tip of his tongue. 

“What, Niall?” Try as he might, he can’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. 

“You can’t do that,” Niall says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and what’s funny is that it is. It should be the easiest thing in the world. They’ve had this conversation before and Harry knows he was in the wrong, but he can’t bring himself to care about it right now, not when Niall did what he did. 

“I’m next in line for the throne, Niall,” Harry says breezily, “I can do whatever my heart desires.” Nevermind that his heart had never desired what happened earlier, but he won’t be admitting that. 

“Harry, you can’t just — you _cannot_ compel me into doing or not doing things, not when the situation is so serious.” Niall sounds frustrated, and a petty side of Harry thinks _good,_ but it's only a small part of him. “What if he’d been armed? What if it had been someone else and you’d risked your safety?” 

“Please,” Harry scoffs. Primrose rests her head on his shoulder, breathing evenly in his ear. “You told me he needs to heal, so it’s doubtful he could hurt me.” Harry can’t see Niall’s face because Niall is still on the damn floor, and there’s a moment of silence in which Harry wonders again how much Niall knows. He wonders why Niall is here right now, other than to reprimand Harry. “Did you know?” he asks. 

There’s another beat of quiet, and it lasts too long, making Harry think Niall won’t answer. But then Niall’s standing up and gazing at Harry from the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest. “Did I know what?” His face is a carefully constructed mask of innocent curiosity, but Harry knows better than to fall for it.

He doesn’t let his eyes waver from Niall’s when he says, “Did you know that the man in that room is the same person whose pain I’ve felt for as long as I can remember?” 

Niall grimaces, but it’s a fleeting thing. If Harry blinked, he would have missed it. He watches as Niall fiddles with the brass buttons on his jacket, and it’s the most fidgety Harry has seen Niall in a while. “Last night,” Niall starts, and his eyes focus on something on the wall across from him, but Harry knows he isn’t really seeing the wall. There’s a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s in a completely different place, watching an entirely different scene play out. “He came back to the palace last night, in bloody tatters, and Bryar found him before I did.” 

Something foul settles in Harry’s chest at the name. Harry’s never been fond of Bryar, simply because the man is too boorish for Harry’s liking; his involvement in any of this doesn’t sit well with Harry. 

“I’d been in Gemma’s room, looking for anything that might tip the scale in our favor, when they told me Tomlinson came back and Bryar was questioning him.” Niall rakes a hand through his already disheveled hair and gnaws at his lip. “You know the man isn’t a gentle soul, and with all the tension hanging over everyone, I didn’t know how he was questioning Tomlinson, so I went down to see. But I —” Niall looks at Harry like it pains him to say the words, and Harry would rather have the world split open. “I found you writhing in pain, and I didn’t...I didn’t think there was a connection because it wasn’t the first time, you know? But you were hurting so much, Harry. I’ve never seen you like that,” Niall admits, and Harry silently agrees. The pain he felt last night is incomparable to anything else. “After I left you, I went straight down to find Bryar, and I...he’d whipped Tomlinson.” Harry stops breathing. The world stills, and Harry isn’t _breathing._ “The man was soaked in his own blood, and when I got there, he’d already passed out from the pain, and there was a part of me that thought, _maybe this is Harry’s person,_ but I didn’t know.” 

Harry remembers screaming last night, remembers feeling his skin split open multiple times and doused in acid. His soulmate was _whipped_ under this very roof _._ Harry wants to break something. 

Niall sits down the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and face buried in his hands, fingers knotting in his hair. “I didn’t know if it was him, Harry,” Niall whispers in a broken voice, and Harry believes him, doesn’t really have another choice, but — “I had Arfa take care of him, had him cleaned up and I didn’t leave his side, I promise. I just — I didn’t _know._ I’m sorry.”

“Where’s Bryar now?” Harry asks because he still can’t breathe properly, still can’t shake away the ghost of the searing pain that tortured him last night. 

Niall doesn’t answer immediately, and Harry sits up, disturbing his sleeping puppy. She settles back in his lap with a whine, and Harry narrows his eyes at Niall, who looks guilty. 

“Tell me you fired that piece of filth,” Harry says slowly and curls his fingers in Prim’s soft fur. She calms him down, usually, but today it doesn’t seem to work in the slightest. “Niall, tell me he isn’t still employed in my home.” 

“He can help find Gemma, Harry,” Niall responds carefully, and, _no,_ absolutely fucking not. But before Harry can speak again, Niall’s already talking, body facing Harry now. “Listen, I know you don’t like the man, and I’m not too fond of him, either, but he has experience. He can get people to talk and —”

“Like he tried getting Tomlinson to talk last night?” Harry bites, his voice coming out harsh and accusatory, and, well, he doesn’t care. Not really. Not at the moment. “Niall, if you don’t make sure that man never has any fucking authority over anything in his life again, I’ll take him to the guillotine.” The thing is, Harry doesn’t know if he’s being dramatic. It doesn’t feel like he is. 

“We’re not barbarians, H, we don’t execute people,” Niall reminds him, like he definitely thinks Harry isn’t serious. 

“I’ll make an exception,” Harry promises. A part of him wonders what the fuck he’s saying, why he’s so livid over someone he has barely even met, but it’s a small part, overshadowed by the stronger voice that says, _you’ve known him your entire life, the point of finding your person was to keep them protected,_ and that’s really it. It’s the principle of the thing. Hurting Tomlinson hurts Harry, and, frankly, that’s enough. Harry’s had enough pain to last him an entire lifetime. 

“You want me to just take away his uniform and tell him his family can starve?” 

“Give his family a compensation, I don’t care what the hell you tell him,” Harry says. “If I see him again, I might kill him myself.” 

Niall stares at Harry with questioning eyes, and they’re not judgmental because Niall knows Harry. He knows Harry in ways most people don’t, even if he doesn’t fully understand the connection Harry has with Tomlinson. Even Harry gets overwhelmed by it at times, doesn’t always know what to do with it. Maybe now he’ll get some real answers. 

“How is he?” Niall asks suddenly, eyes softer and more concerned. And then, with a more guarded expression: “Can he talk soon? I want to ask him some questions.”

“I don’t know,” Harry sighs. Primrose is a comforting weight in his lap, grounding him to this room and this moment. He leans down to kiss the top of her head. “He was still sleeping when I left the room — I think Arfa sedated him.” He remembers the cuts and bruises on his face, the stitches on his back. “He’s really hurt.” Harry’s voice breaks as he remembers the phantom pain. “I don’t know when he’ll be better.” A thought strikes and makes Harry feel a bit unsteady. “Does he have a family? Do they know he’s here?” Harry isn’t sure if Tomlinson lives at the palace or if he has specific hours, doesn’t know anything about the man. 

“They don’t live too far away,” Niall tells him. “I can send someone over so they know he’s alright.”

Harry nods, feels some of the tension seep from his shoulders. 

“Have you eaten anything?” Niall questions him, and Harry shakes his head. He doesn’t have an appetite. “Harry,” Niall sighs, reaching out to pet Primrose. “You need to go and eat a proper meal.”

Harry shakes his head again. “Do we know more about Gemma?” 

“No.” It’s a resigned sound, a broken syllable, and Harry hates it. Hates the way it settles heavily around his heart. “I’m running around blind trying to find anything that can be tied to the note that was left, but there’s nothing. No one fucking knows anything.”

Useless. Harry feels absolutely useless. “Do we know how they managed to sneak into the palace and whisk Gems away undetected?” 

“Not exactly,” Niall admits. “Most of the guards on duty don’t seem to recall anything with certainty, so, again, I feel like I’m running blind. I’ll figure it out though, I promise.”

Harry trusts him. If there’s one person Harry trusts to find his sister, it’s the man sitting across from him. He’s known Niall his entire life, has seen Niall work his way up the ranks and knows what Niall is capable of. He has his guard down in the confines of these four walls, but Harry knows, as soon as Niall leaves this room, he’ll be the Captain of the entire royal guard, confident in his decisions. 

“Don’t talk to Mali about this,” Niall murmurs, and for a moment Harry isn’t sure if he’s heard correctly, but then Niall speaks again. “I don’t know what it is about him exactly, but sometimes I get the feeling that he isn’t being completely honest with me.”

Harry scratches behind Prim’s ear. “How do you mean?”

“Dunno, to be honest. I hope I’m wrong.” 

Niall doesn’t explain more, and Harry has so many questions, but he stows them away for now. He knows Niall cares about Gemma, would go to great lengths to bring her back, but there isn’t anything he can do right now. They sit in silence until Niall stands up, ruffles Harry’s hair and says, “I’m sending some food up for ya, okay?”

Harry tries and fails to smile. “Thanks, Ni.”

▴▴▴

Tomlinson sleeps for the next two days. Harry goes to see him both days, sits near him for a while. The swelling in his face goes down considerably, but there’s still purple bruises left on his skin and what Harry thinks is a scar forming between his eyebrows. He stays in the room when Arfa comes in to redress his wounds, and when her eyes linger on Harry a beat too long in a silent question on the first day, Harry tells her, “He’s my person.” He watches recognition and understanding flicker in her eyes when she smiles sadly, and he says, “Be gentle with him.” And when she cleans his cuts and puts pressure on the wounds, Harry feels it. Arfa apologizes quietly, but Harry isn’t sure if she’s speaking to him or the unconscious Tomlinson. 

Harry sees his mother, too, but not for long. She’s constantly surrounded by guards and advisors and Queen Giovanna, and Harry would rather they have more privacy when he tells her about Tomlinson. 

It’s on the third day that Tomlinson wakes up when Arfa is cleaning his sutures with a wet cloth. Harry’s sitting on the crimson rug next to the bed, playing fetch with Primrose, a grey cat asleep on his thigh. Arfa doesn’t talk to Harry much unless Harry asks a direct question, which is to be expected, but Harry wishes she felt more comfortable with him. She’s one of the few permanent workers in the palace close to Harry’s age, and it would be nice if he could befriend her, make her feel more at ease around him, but there will always be that obvious gap between them — of Harry being the crown prince and Arfa being a medic. He hates it sometimes. Right now, she’s telling Harry about her little sister, Amber. Harry’s already learned that she wants to have at least four cats in the future. 

“She really wants to be like Princess Gemma.” Arfa smiles affectionately, dabbing carefully at Tomlinson’s lacerated skin. “She was over the moon about the wedding and I could barely get her to stop crying last night. She’s rather enamored by Her Highness.”

“Gemma tends to have that effect on people,” Harry responds quietly. Her misses her fiercely. _Please be okay, Gem, wherever you are._ “I’m no Princess Gemma, but tell her she’s more than welcome to come find me whenever she pleases,” Harry says. “Your sister, I mean. She sounds wonderful.”

“She is,” Arfa agrees. 

It’s quiet again, but this time the silence is cut short by Arfa asking Harry, “How did you know it’s him?” When Harry doesn’t respond immediately, a little confused at her wording, her cheeks flush pink. “I mean, how did you realize Tomlinson is your soulmate? I’m sorry if that’s intrusive,” she apologizes quickly. 

“It’s really not,” Harry assures her. He pets Kat, running his hand over the cat’s soft fur and gently scratching behind his ear. “I didn’t know until I walked in here that day and saw him,” Harry says quietly. “I knew there was someone out there, you know, because I felt all the pain they went through, but I never knew it was him. It only clicked when I saw how badly he was hurt, and it just...all of it just fell into place.” 

“Did you know him before?”

Harry peers up at Tomlinson’s sleeping face, and there’s no recognition. There’s a hint of familiarity in the way his soft, brown hair falls in a swoop over his forehead and in the way his eyelashes brush against his high cheekbones, but Harry doesn’t recall ever interacting with the man. “I think I might have seen him around the palace at some point,” Harry admits, “but I don’t think I can say I knew him well.” 

And then it’s quiet. Harry keeps petting Kat, and even Primrose has stopped chasing her toy. She’s laid down in between Harry’s legs, her head lolling on one of them. Arfa finishes cleaning up Louis’ back in silence. She’ll come back later, she tells Harry, to replace the bandages. The wounds need some fresh air, she says. And then she’s gone, leaving Harry alone in the room with his sleeping soulmate, a sleeping cat and an exhausted dog. He wants to get up and sit on the bed, see if Tomlinson’s wounds are healing, but Kat is purring in his lap, and Harry doesn’t have the heart to move right now. So, he watches the man from his place on the floor. 

His face is less swollen, but there are still colorful bruises along his cheekbones and jaw, cuts that have given way to scabs on his cheeks and above his eyebrows. 

Harry hasn’t felt any pain in more than two days.

Just as he has the thought, Tomlinson’s eyelids flutter before opening, and Harry finds himself staring into a sea of blue. He doesn’t move, doesn’t really know what to do. He just stares. Tomlinson blinks back unseeingly, gaze never focusing on Harry until it does. Their eyes lock, and Harry sees a moment of clarity flash in the blue before it’s gone again just as quickly. 

“I’m hungry,” are the first words Tomlinson croaks out, his voice throaty and broken. 

Harry hears him though. He gently slides Kat off his lap, murmuring, “Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry,” to the whining cat as he gets to his feet and races to the door, swinging it open to address the guard. “I need you to bring some food, please, Castro. Ask Arfa what Tomlinson should eat, and have it brought up as soon as possible.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

When Harry returns, he finds Tomlinson pushing up onto his elbows trying to sit up, and Harry immediately rushes to halt his movements, gently grabbing onto his arms and stopping him. “Hey, no, you can’t move like that,” he says, “You need to be careful or the sutures might come undone.” 

Harry feels pinpricks on his back, little momentary zaps of fleeting pain. He silently thanks Arfa for whatever she did that dulled Tomlinson’s pain to this extent, because now that he’s so close to the man, Harry can finally see the damage. The lacerations on his back are deep, the kind that can only be acquired by slashing open flesh with leather. Harry suppresses a shudder and gingerly pushes Tomlinson back onto the mattress. 

“Please don’t move.” 

“I want water,” Tomlinson almost whines, voice still scratchy. 

“They’ll bring some in a bit,” Harry promises. He doesn’t know what to do or what to say, doesn't know how to just ask this man everything he wants to know. He’s crouched by the bed, watching over a man he barely knows but has a soul connection with, and now there’s a dog circling around him. “What’s your name?” Harry asks. 

“Tomlinson,” he responds. He squeezes his eyes shut and winces in time for Harry to feel flames dancing down his spine. 

Harry’s vision flashes white hot. 

“What does everyone call you?” he asks after a moment when he can breathe again. 

“Louis, Your Highness,” Tomlinson — Louis — says through gritted teeth. 

“Louis,” Harry tests the word on his tongue, lets it roll off easily. “Louis, I know you’re hurt, but I need to talk to you. I need to —”

“I’m sorry,” Louis interrupts him, “have you — I need to see my sister. And I’m cold.”

Harry realizes then that Louis must be freezing. He’s been without a top on for almost three days, and Harry can’t cover him with a blanket right now — not if he doesn’t want his sutures getting caught up in the fabric. Harry shrugs off his velvet jacket and drapes it gently over Louis’ body, hoping it keeps him a bit warmer and that it doesn’t grate against his wounds. “I’ll get them to burn some more firewood,” Harry tells him. 

“My sister,” Louis mumbles weakly, “I need to see my sisters, please. Charlotte, and Daisy, and —”

“I’ll have them brought here,” Harry promises him, his own impatience getting the best of him. He crouches by the bed, empty hand curling in Prim’s soft fur and asks, “Can you tell me where my sister is? Were you with her?”

“I need to see my sisters,” Louis repeats and closes his eyes. Primrose jumps on the bed lightly, startling Louis, curiously peering at his bruised face. Harry watches at the man’s features soften imperceptibly, a hint of a smile ghosting over his mouth before he winces and Harry feels the pain deep within himself. 

“Louis, please,” he implores, “I just need you to tell me if you know where my sister is, then I’ll let you be.”

“I need to know where _my_ sisters are, Your Highness,” Louis says again stubbornly, and Harry feels a flare of irritation. 

“They’re safe,” Harry tells him. Of course they’re safe. Harry had Niall make sure Louis’ family was safe and sound and had told them that Louis was hurt, that he would heal with time. They aren’t allowed to visit Louis yet, because no one knows what information Louis might have and how he might be connected to all this, and Niall isn’t willing to take the risk. Neither is Harry. Louis lifts a trembling hand to pet Primrose. “I only have a few questions, if you tell —”

“Like Bryar had questions?” Louis interrupts him again, surprising Harry. People don’t do that. _Guards_ don’t do that. They don’t cut Harry off in the middle of a sentence in the span of a few minutes. Louis doesn’t look at Harry, keeps moving his fingers over Prim’s neck, when he says in a broken whisper, “I’m not telling you anything.” 

It’s the mention of Bryar’s name that makes Harry hesitate, that curbs the annoyance uncurling in his stomach. Harry can see the jagged edge of a gash peeking out from underneath his jacket on Louis’ back, can feel the ache in his back getting more prominent with every passing moment that Louis’ awake. Instead of pressing for answers, Harry lets him be. He sits on the floor, back pressed against the bed, and scoops Kat in his arms, holding him close for his own comfort. The cat is a warm weight against his chest, but only for a moment because the next thing Harry knows, he hears the sound of the door opening and turns his head to see Arfa walking into the room with her medical kit. 

“Hello,” she greets them softly, and Harry reciprocates. He isn’t sure if Louis simply didn’t hear her or is intentionally being rude by not responding. He doesn’t ask. He simply lets Kat down on the floor and picks Primrose off the bed, letting her down as well, before he situates himself against the bedside table. Arfa comes to sit at the edge of the bed, carefully picking up Harry’s jacket off of Louis’ back and holding out for Harry. Harry takes it but doesn’t put it back on; there’s a lone splotch of crimson marring the silver satin of the inside of the jacket. “Hi, Louis,” Arfa says quietly, almost affectionately, and Harry watches attentively as Louis blinks at her. 

“Arfa,” is all he says, but the word is laced with familiarity, like they know each other well, and it sparks so many questions that Harry’s dying to ask, but he bites his tongue. “How bad am I?” 

“Your back was ruined when I first saw you, but it’s getting better,” Arfa says, beginning to clean Louis’ cuts once more with an expert hand. “Scared me to death, seeing all the blood. It wouldn’t stop.”

“Sorry,” Louis says, almost like he’s embarrassed, like he has a reason to apologize. 

“Not your fault,” Arfa responds. 

They talk as if this isn’t their first interaction, as if they might even be friends, and Harry wonders if that’s the case — if his soulmate is well-acquainted with the person Harry’s been trying and failing to befriend. Harry watches quietly from the floor as Arfa begins to bandage Louis’ back, taping it with white until it covers his entire back and helping him sit up so she can wrap it around his torso too. She’s helping him put his arms through a flimsy, silky charcoal-colored shirt when the door opens again, and instead of someone bringing food, it’s Niall — Niall, who manages to look at once livid and distressed, flanked by two men. Harry recognizes the dark-haired guard as Zayn Malik when the man nods respectfully in Harry’s direction. Malik is usually appointed to looking after Harry’s mother, so Harry wonders why Niall has him here right now. 

“We need to go,” Niall says in lieu of greeting, nodding his head at Malik in a silent command Harry has seen so many times before. Harry has barely gotten to his feet, cat and dog both quiet at his feet before Malik is at the edge of the bed, keying a pair of handcuffs. 

“Go where?” Harry demands. They’re all looking at Louis as if he’s done something terrible, as if he isn’t a member of the guard and hasn’t worked alongside them for however long. He steps between Malik and Louis, eyes trained on Niall’s conflicted face. “What’s happening?” 

“Her Majesty has asked to see him,” Niall says in a tone that doesn’t leave room for arguments from anyone, except perhaps the crown prince. “It’s been three days, and time is precious. I need to ask him some things.”

“Like Bryar did?” Harry throws Louis’ words at Niall, knowing it’s unfair, but there’s a guard standing two feet away holding handcuffs with every intention of using them. He can tell he’s offended Niall, and there’s a part of Harry that feels guilty, but it’s overshadowed by the need to stand up for Louis. 

“Bryar has nothing to do with this,” Niall responds tightly. He nods at Malik again, who takes a step forward, even though Harry is still in his way. “Come on, Harry, this is important. We might have a lead on Gemma.” 

That startles Harry, making his chest constrict painfully at his sister’s name and the knowing she’s still missing before Niall’s words truly register. “What does it have to do with Louis?” Harry asks and realizes belatedly that he used Louis’ first name. He doesn’t pause to let it settle. “He’s been here for two days — injured, might I add — and he needs to eat.”

“He can eat later,” Niall says dismissively. “Step aside, Harry, honestly. Don’t be difficult.” 

_This isn’t difficult,_ is what Harry doesn’t say. He knows Niall is aware of that. Harry looks from Niall to Malik, and now that Harry is staring at his face this close up, he can see a faint bruise circling the man’s right eye. He glances at Louis, who’s now sitting up and watching the scene unfold before him with wary eyes. Arfa is standing near him, one hand resting on Louis’ shoulder, and Harry absently wonders how well they know each other. He catches Louis’ eye, who blinks back impassively for a moment before settling his gaze on the guard in front of Harry. Harry doesn’t know how much longer the man can go without food, doesn’t know when he last ate, but there’s the very pressing issue of finding Gemma, and he can’t simply ignore it because the man who failed to protect her isn’t properly fed. He also hasn’t forgotten that Louis essentially refused to tell him anything until he saw his sisters, so maybe Niall can get him to talk. 

“Fine,” Harry says and takes two steps to the side so that Malik can get to Louis. He anxiously tugs at his bottom lip, watching as Malik kneels in front of Louis and takes his hand, pushing the silky material of his shirt past his wrists. Immediately, Harry speaks up. “You don’t need to cuff him, for goodness’ sake, he’s not going to make a break for it. He’s _hurt._ Be reasonable, Niall.” 

Malik is holding Louis’ bandaged wrist, and Harry isn’t sure if he hallucinates the quiet _sorry_ he hears. 

“Fine,” Niall imitates Harry’s earlier tone, impatience coating the single word. “Can we just go, please?” 

Harry scoops up Primrose and Kat in his arms, both calm and quiet, and follows everyone out of the room. Niall leads the way, flanked on either side by Rowan and Caspian, with Louis in the center. Then there’s Harry, with one guard on either side of him. They walk down the hallway, the sounds of their footsteps muffled by the thick, crimson carpet as Niall turns a corner and guides them past the guest wing and closer to the council room. 

Harry watches Louis’ step falter, watches him clutch his knee and curl into himself, and not a moment later there’s a sharp stinging pain that pricks Harry’s back, dancing along his spine and digging into his bones. _Fuck._ It hurts, it actually _hurts,_ and Harry hasn’t felt this kind of pain since Louis fell asleep days ago. But the way Louis is bent in on himself leaves no doubt in Harry’s mind that he’s pulling on his sutures, and that’s not — fuck, that isn’t okay. Before Harry can say anything, Niall is bending in front of Louis, peering up at him with genuine concern. 

“Are you okay?” 

“No, sir,” Louis says through gritted teeth, and, yes, he works under Niall’s command, Harry remembers. “My back was split open, and I feel like it’s been lit on fire and doused in acid.” 

“I’m sorry.” Niall actually sounds remorseful when he says it, and Harry knows him well enough to know that the sentiment behind the words is real. “I would let you rest, but I really do need to ask you some questions, and I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

“Fine.” Louis stands up straight a moment later, arching his back a little and leaving Harry a little breathless. Just then, Niall looks over Louis’ shoulder and catches Harry’s eye, lifting his eyebrows in a silent question. 

_I’m fine,_ Harry mouths at him, choosing to focus on the soft animals in his arms rather than the very real pain ghosting over his body. They keep walking, and this time the men on either side of Louis keep a supportive hand on his elbows. Before they even reach the council room, though, Harry can see two distinct spots of dark red staining the back of Louis’ shirt. He wants to do something to help, wants Louis to just sit down and eat something, but he knows he can’t argue with Niall on this. A part of him doesn’t want to either — the part that is still focused on his sister. 

The council room itself is rather empty, much to Harry’s surprise, occupied only by his mother and four other people. All five of them are seated around the circular table, but Harry’s mother uncharacteristically stands up and strides towards them when they enter the room. She’s wearing a shimmery, golden gown that billows at her waist and just barely touches the floor, long sleeves going just past her wrists. It isn’t an extravagant dress — not like something she would typically wear to a council meeting, but then again, it isn’t a usual day. She lacks her usual sparkle, and Harry understands why. The only thing revealing her status is the sapphire-speckled diadem atop her head. 

Nevertheless, despite her somber look, all the guards around Harry murmur a collective _“Your Majesty,”_ and bow, including Louis, and fuck. _Fuck._ Harry’s back screams in agony, and he has to bend down — pretend it’s so he can let Primrose and Kat onto the floor, bite back the tears that spring to his eyes. Even when he stands up and sees Louis’ back straighten, the pain is still there, as are a number of new splotches discoloring Louis’ shirt. Harry can see the man’s hands balled into fists, can feel just the hint of pain from where Louis’ nails must be digging into his palms. 

“How are you?” Harry’s mother addresses Louis, who is now directly in front of her. Niall’s standing to Louis’ left and the queen’s right, a mediator in the space between the two. 

“I’m not quite sure, Your Grace,” Louis answers, and Harry needs to see his face, so he breaks apart from the group and goes to stand beside Niall, next to his mother. Louis’ eyes are cast down, but there’s a crease between his brows, and his mouth is pressed into a thin line. Harry isn’t sure what answer his mother is expecting and what answer is appropriate to give at the moment. 

“Can you tell me anything that you remember from the night of the ball?” she asks, voice just the right mix of compassionate and demanding. It reminds Harry of when he was younger, all the times she would comfort him when he got hurt before asking him what, exactly, he did. “Would you like to sit down first?”

“Yes, please,” Louis says, words coming out a little breathless. 

People move around to get Louis seated at the table, and Harry’s mother turns to him, raising her gloved hand to caress his cheek. She must sense something isn’t right because her eyebrows pull together and she frowns, concern flooding her blue eyes. “What’s the matter, darling?” 

Harry shakes his head and leans into her touch, closing his eyes for a moment and just allowing himself the small comfort. Then he looks at her and promises, “I’ll tell you about it later.” 

His mother continues to gaze up at him worriedly for another minute before she nods and turns to face Louis, who is now sitting in a chair at the edge of the table. She pulls Harry along with her when she takes her place at the head, and Harry sits in the empty chair on her right. Harry isn’t a council member, so he knows he’s sitting in someone else’s designated spot, but no one’s going to complain, because he’s the crown prince. 

“Louis Tomlinson.” The words come from Harry’s mother, and gone is the soft voice she was using just a moment ago. Now, she’s a queen demanding answers and a mother looking for her daughter. Louis puts the glass of water back down on the table and raises his chin just a bit. He looks exhausted. “Can you tell us what happened on the night of the ball?” 

Louis nods and clasps his hands together on the table, staring down at them as he chews on his bottom lip. “I was...I was assigned to be with Princess Gemma that night,” Louis begins and then snaps his mouth shut. Harry wishes they were sat closer, so he could see more clearly all the changes in Louis’ facial expressions. “I don’t remember a lot of it, not the way I should,” Louis continues. He says the words slowly, like he has to think about them, and Harry briefly wonders if he’s being completely honest. “Her Highness was getting changed into a different gown for the final dance of the night,” Louis says, and his eyes flicker up, catching Harry’s for just a second before they’re trained on his hands once more. “I was supposed to be stationed outside her chambers, but something didn’t feel right, so I stayed inside with her,” he admits. 

Before Louis even winces, Harry feels the sharp pain along his shoulder blades. He grinds his teeth together and refuses to let it show. 

“What didn’t feel right?” the queen inquires. “Were you directly ordered to stay outside her chambers?”

“I was,” Louis agrees, and Harry feels his own forehead wrinkle in confusion. Why would Louis disregard a direct command? “Captain Horan ordered me to stand guard outside her chambers when she was inside, and I did stay there for a little while before I went inside. Something felt wrong, and I thought it would be better if I kept an eye on her from where I could see her.” 

“What felt wrong? Did something happen?” 

“No, I —” Louis cuts himself off abruptly, and Harry hears his mother sigh impatiently. Louis is fidgeting, picking at the bandages on his wrists, and he looks distressed. Even from a distance, Harry can see the rigidity in his shoulders and the way he clamps down on his jaw every now and then. “Nothing happened, really. It was more like intuition. I felt like I needed to be in the rooms, even if it meant defying orders.”

Niall is standing behind Louis, one hand casually resting on the hilt of a dagger. Harry tries to catch his eye and gauge Niall’s feelings, but the man’s face is an impassive mask of calm. Harry wonders just how much trouble Louis is going to be in once this meeting is over and he’s left at Niall’s mercy — if Louis survives the meeting, that is. Harry glances back at his mother, who is carefully regarding Louis, almost like she’s deciding whether or not she trusts him. Harry doesn’t know either. 

“What else do you remember?” she probes, “I want you to tell me everything that happened, exactly as you remember it. Tell me what you remember about where you were taken and how you found your way back to the palace.”

Louis flattens his hands on top of the table, and Harry shouldn’t be able to see that they’re trembling. But can he can, and Louis’ hands aren’t still. 

“Mum,” Harry whispers under his breath, reaching under the table to touch his mother’s knee and get her attention. “He needs to eat — he hasn’t in three days.”

She looks between Harry and Louis, mouth pulled down at the corners, before addressing a golden-haired guard. “Have his meal brought here, please.” Then, to Louis, she says, “Go on.”

Harry watches Louis carefully, ignoring the irritating pain zipping up and down his back, and focuses on the way Louis pushes his fingers into the black velvet of the table cloth before closing them into fists. 

“I don’t know why I don’t remember patches of the night, but there’s...I feel like there are gaps in my memory where there should be none.” Louis’ eyes flit up to the ceiling for a moment before falling back down. “Instead of staying out in the hall, I went inside and stood near the door. Princess Gemma was choosing her second gown and her maiden —” Louis pauses, tugs at one of his sleeves. “Nadia, right?” He doesn’t look at anyone for an answer and doesn’t wait either. “She and Nadia were deciding which dress she would wear for the dance, and then they went into the changing room. I think...someone had to be waiting in the other room. The next thing I know, I’m fighting three people at once, and I can’t — I couldn’t see any of their faces. They were all masked, and I only remember a pair of grey eyes. Or maybe they were blue. I can’t remember.” 

He looks up from his hands then. and his eyes fall on the queen sat almost directly across from him. Harry wonders what his mother sees in those eyes. 

“I remember someone dragged the princess out, and she was still in her maroon gown from earlier,” Louis recalls. Harry doesn’t miss the way he keeps fidgeting with his fingers. “And the handmaiden too. It’s a bit of a blur, but I think she put up a fight. It’s blank after that — I don’t remember what happened, but they were already there. I don’t know how, but they were all waiting in position. They knew where Her Highness would be at that time.”

Harry doesn’t know what to do, how to process everything Louis is saying. Someone knew where Gemma would be that night and they knew how to get away unnoticed. They managed to stay undetected in her rooms and whisk her away from under everyone’s noses. Harry doesn’t know if he should take Louis’ word for it — if he should believe Louis, especially since Louis is admitting he doesn’t remember everything that happened. Harry sees Niall’s bewildered expression, and he’s sure his own face is a mirror image. 

Harry’s mother isn’t deterred though. “Where did they take you? Were you with the princess?”

Louis shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” 

The door opens then, and the same golden-haired guard from earlier steps in with a tray of food. Harry returns his focus back to Louis and the way he’s gnawing at his lip, the distant sting of it present on his own mouth. The tray is placed in front of Louis, who doesn’t move to touch it. 

“I woke up in a cabin,” Louis says without looking at anyone in particular, the crease back between his eyebrows. “My hands were tied, but whoever did it probably wasn’t very good at it. It didn’t take much to free myself because they didn’t disarm me completely; there was still a pocket knife sewn into my sleeve, and I cut myself free with it. And then I came back here.” 

Harry’s head is swimming with questions. He doesn’t even know what to ask first because there’s so much he wants to know, and he’s just...he doesn’t know where to fucking begin. 

Niall, however, feels no such hesitation. “They left you alone in a cabin somewhere?” 

“No.” Louis picks up the silver spoon in front of him and takes a mouthful of what Harry supposes is broth. “They, uh, there was one person keeping watch outside. I don’t think they meant to do anything to me or keep me for long, because they left me with someone who was obviously not very trained. I’m good, you know? I’m good at my job. I don’t know what happened that night and how they knocked me unconscious, but I’m good. I had to fight my way out of the cabin, and it wasn’t easy because I was already hurt from earlier, but I did it. And I found my way back to the palace because I know my way around the woods.” 

“Would you be able to lead us back to the cabin?” 

“Maybe.” Louis makes eye contact with Harry then, just for a flash of a second, and Harry could swear he just saw Louis glare daggers at him. A bit uncalled for, but Harry doesn’t say anything about it. “I’m sorry,” Louis says, not sounding the least bit sorry, “but I’d like to see my sisters.”

“Your sisters are well,” Harry’s mother tells Louis. “I made sure they’re well tended to. Now, can you tell me where you last saw my daughter?” 

“I don’t — I’m sorry, but I have to see my sisters,” Louis insists, almost like a petulant child begging to get his way, and it irks Harry a bit. Does he not realize that a member of the royal family is fucking _missing_ and that he happens to be the last person to have seen her? “I’ve told you everything I know,” he adds. “There’s nothing I can do for you.” 

“There is,” the queen corrects him, and Harry watches as she nods in Niall’s direction. “Captain?” 

Without a word, Niall pulls reaches inside his jacket, and his hand comes out holding a folded square. He puts the golden parchment down in front of Louis, right next to his food, and Harry hasn’t the slightest idea what the paper reads and what Louis has to do with it. 

“Do you recognize this?” Niall asks. After all this time, Harry is sometimes still in awe at how easily Niall can slip into his role as the Captain, how easily he can command all his men just by using the right tone of voice. “Feel free to open it. Look at the penmanship. Does any of it look familiar?” 

Louis squints at the paper in front of him before picking it up. Harry doesn’t miss the tremble in his fingers even from across the table, and he feels a twinge of guilt, but it’s quickly washed away when Louis’ eyebrows quirk up in recognition for just a speck of an instant. It’s then that Harry’s eyes fall on the chestnut crescent moons cutting each other in half on the bottom of the parchment. _The note,_ he remembers. It’s the note he and Niall found in Nadia’s hand that night. 

“I’ve never seen this before in my life,” Louis says easily, too easily, eyes still locked on the words in front of him, and that’s it. 

“You’re lying,” Harry calls him out, and he doesn’t even know why. He knows he shouldn’t have, knows it isn’t his place when Niall is the one questioning Louis and the queen herself is present, but Louis isn’t being truthful. He’s been trying to evade questions since he woke up, and now he’s _lying,_ and Harry has had enough of it because no one fucking knows where his sister is, and Louis is acting like couldn’t care less about it. 

Louis’ eyes snap up to meet Harry’s, and he doesn’t flinch like someone else might, doesn’t look away because he’s a guard and Harry’s the crown prince. He holds Harry’s gaze in his stormy, blue eyes and says, “I have never seen this before in my life.” 

“You’re lying,” Harry repeats. He has to clasp his hands together in his lap because he’s shaking, just a little. Still, Louis doesn’t look away, and Harry feels something ugly stir in his gut. “You might not have seen this particular piece,” Harry continues, ignoring the way Niall and his mother and everyone else is looking curiously at him. “You do recognize something about it though. What is it?” 

Louis says nothing. He keeps staring at Harry like he hasn’t a single fear in the world, like he has nothing to lose by disregarding a direct question from the crown prince, and that’s just...Harry takes a deep breath and then locks his eyes on Louis’ unblinkingly, watching as the blue in them loses its clarity and becomes unfocused. A shame, really, because he has such pretty eyes, the way they look like blue diamonds under the light. But Harry barely registers his mother’s disapproving gasp when he asks Louis, “What is it that you recognize on the parchment?” 

“The seal,” Louis responds. 

“What about it? Where have you seen it before?” Harry prods. 

There’s absolutely no hesitation when Louis tells the room, “My father used to have the same symbol on all of his stationary.”

It’s like all the air dissipates from the room as soon as those words fall to the floor. 

Harry looks away from Louis for just a moment, long enough so Louis can blink, and then Harry’s staring right through him, piecing things together that he should have seen earlier. 

From the moment they found out about Gemma’s disappearance, Niall has been convinced someone on the inside assisted the intruders. Louis wasn’t always assigned to Gemma, and it was a job he was given for that one night alone — a job he didn’t do well, considering he ignored his instructions to stand guard outside and made himself comfortable inside Gemma’s rooms. As far as Harry’s aware, Louis is the only guard who went missing along with Gemma, only to return back to the palace. All of it is connected by the letter left in Nadia’s hand, which now has the seal of Louis’ father. 

No fucking wonder Louis made it out alive. What father would truly harm his own son? 

“Where is my sister?” Harry asks quietly. He feels anything but quiet though. He feels hot all over, like the silk top he has on is ablaze, chasing flames up and down his skin. “Do not lie to me again, Louis Tomlinson. Where is my sister?” 

“I don’t know,” Louis says, and it’s just three syllables, but they make Harry want to rip his own hair out. He has to clamp his jaw shut, lest he say something impulsive. “I don’t _know,”_ Louis repeats when Harry says nothing. 

“Where is your father now?” The queen’s voice cuts in, leaving Harry feeling unsteady. 

“I don’t know.” 

“When did you last see him?” 

“I don’t know.”

“Dear god, do you know anything?” Harry snaps, unable to contain himself any longer. “You’ve been pulling barely coherent answers right out of your ass ever since you woke up, so, tell me, is there something that you _do_ know, Tomlinson?”

It happens fast. One second Louis looks dazed and overwhelmed, and the next he looks stormy. There’s steel in his eyes where a moment ago there was hazy blue, and he glares at Harry like he stopped caring about everything years ago. “I know that I had to take on three men by myself in an effort to keep your sister safe,” he speaks quietly, but the anger and bitterness in his voice are palpable. “I know that somewhere in the midst of fighting three trained people, one of them knocked me unconscious. I know I was held hostage, and I know I had to fight my way back here. I know I was beaten to a pulp when I didn’t answer questions to someone’s liking, and I know I woke up days later only to be interrogated again. I know my back is bleeding because I can feel my top clinging to the blood, and I know I haven’t eaten since the evening of the ball because my stomach is twisting in on itself. I know my sisters are probably scared out of their minds because I’m their only guardian, and I know the only thing stopping me from seeing them and making sure they’re alright is you.”

When Louis stops speaking, there’s heavy silence in the room, apart from the painfully loud rhythm of Harry’s heart. 

“With all due respect, is that enough for you, Your Highness?” His tone is blatantly mocking, and Harry can’t do anything about it, can’t utter a single word to defend himself. 

Yes, he knows they’ve probably pushed Louis past his limits. Yes, he knows it probably would’ve been better to let him rest and heal first, but Gemma’s safety and wellbeing come before anything. He’s about to say as much, is about to tell Louis that he’s simply worried about his sister, but his mother’s voice cuts through the air before can open his mouth. 

“You may return to your room for the time being, and your sisters will be there shortly to visit you.” 

Harry simply sits there and watches quietly as Louis gets to his feet, guards flanking on either side of him as if he could actually do anything and wordlessly walks out of the room. The dark stains on the back of his shirt are impossible to miss, and they leave a bad taste in Harry’s mouth. 

“Make sure he doesn’t step foot off the palace grounds,” Harry’s mother is telling Niall. “Have someone bring his sisters to see him, and have someone stationed inside his room at all times. See to it that he’s well taken care of. And you, Captain, don’t leave the palace without backup, empty promises be damned.” 

“Are we really willing to take that risk?” Niall asks her, and Harry is lost. He doesn’t know what they’re talking about — where Niall might be going and what risk they might be taking. 

“What’s going on?” he asks at the same time that Lady Isabella inquires, “Is that really wise?” 

There’s a beat of silence in which Harry watches Niall and his mother have an entire conversation with just their eyes, and something unpleasant sits heavy in his stomach. He doesn’t like the way they’re looking at each other, doesn’t like that whatever he doesn’t know is serious enough for them to have a silent conversation with a room full of the royal council. 

“We don’t know what they want,” Harry’s mother says finally, addressing no one in particular and making eye contact with everyone at the table. “Until we know what it is they desire, they won’t dare hurt a single strand of hair on my daughter’s head. She’s no good to them dead. We play by our rules.”

“What is happening?” Harry asks his mother again, because it sounds like they’re speaking a different language and he doesn’t even know the alphabet. 

“There was a letter.” It takes a moment for Harry to realize that the words come from Niall, who’s pulling another piece of parchment from the inside of his jacket, and this one is rolled rather than folded. It’s tinted gold just like the other one and is marked with the same two crescents at the bottom. “I went to see Nova earlier today, just to check on him,” Niall continues in a steady voice as he rounds the table and hands the roll of paper to Harry. “I found it left in his stall, right next to the gate.”

When Harry flattens the parchment on the black velvet, his mouth goes dry. 

_Beloved Captain Horan,_

_Your presence is requested at the cabin in the woods, just a little bit east of the river, tomorrow at noon. Be sure to come alone and unarmed so we can we discuss the wellbeing of your princess._

_Best,_

_Yours Truly._

“I’m going with you,” Harry says as soon as the inked words register with him. 

“No, you’re not,” his mother and Niall say in unison. 

“I’m _going,_ ” Harry presses. “Look, I can’t just — I’m not going to just _sit_ here and do nothing when I can be out doing _something._ I’m going with you, Niall.”

“How would that help anything?” 

“Mother, you just said he isn’t allowed to go anywhere without someone backing him up. I’m someone, alright? I’m going.”

“You aren’t someone, dear, you’re the crown prince.” She says it easily, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, and Harry doesn’t understand how they can just expect him to not do anything. “I can hardly let you go and possibly endanger yourself.”

Harry folds his arms on the table and puts his head down, hiding his face in the silk of his shirt. Arguing with them right now will do no good, he knows. He’ll have to talk to them separately, when they aren’t able to shoot him down as a team. Right now, he tunes out whatever they’re discussing and closes his eyes. Not even a minute passes before Harry feels it again — the burn that comes along with the gashes on Louis’ back stretching. This time, it’s not just a physical reminder of Louis’ pain but of Harry’s insensitive behavior as well. He shoves the creeping guilt aside — the man very well might have played a part in Gemma’s disappearance — and lifts his head to call for Primrose, but she’s curled quietly next to Harry’s chair. He scoops her into his arms as the council members take their leave, Niall and Harry’s mother staying behind. 

“I don’t want you to do anything impulsive, Harry.” Harry lifts his face from Prim’s soft fur and catches his mother’s eye, who’s looking at him worriedly. “I know you’re worried about your sister, but you simply can’t go out and look for her.” 

“I can’t do nothing,” he argues. He knows without a flicker of doubt that if his and Gemma’s roles were reversed, she would do everything she could to bring him home. Instead of chasing after that argument though, since he knows it’ll get him nowhere right now, he latches onto the other thing gnawing at his mind. “What are we going to do about Tomlinson?”

The name sounds...strange, almost wrong, on his tongue. When he thinks _Louis,_ it feels natural, feels right. Referring to him as _Tomlinson_ brings about a sense of detachment, like Harry isn’t connected to him. _That’s a good thing,_ he tells himself. 

“Let him rest for a day or two,” Niall answers. “I doubt he’s up for answering anything as of now, especially after your little stunt. That wasn’t right, by the way,” Niall says it like an afterthought, like Harry invading someone’s mind and forcing them to say things is a common occurrence. The feeling doesn’t sit particularly well with Harry. 

“I only did it because I knew he was lying.” 

“Did you though? You don’t even know him.” 

“That’s not — fine. You’re right, and I shouldn’t have done it.” There’s no point bickering with the two when they’re on each other’s side and Harry is on his own. Gemma would’ve agreed with him. “What now? We know the seal is his father’s. All of it — everything that happened on the night of the ball — ties him to Gemma somehow. Are we just letting him...I don’t know, shouldn’t you be a bit harder on him? Find out what his part is in all this?”

“Extremely bad luck,” Niall says while dragging a hand through his hair. Harry stares at him without speaking, a bit dumbfounded, and Niall blinks. “What? You think he genuinely played an active role in whatever happened?” 

Perplexed, Harry looks back and forth between his mother and Niall, who both seem to regard him like he’s a little amusing and a little deranged and entirely out of his mind. “You think it’s a genuine coincidence that everything seems to be implicating him?” 

“Yes,” Niall laughs, and it’s a breathy thing, just an airy sound devoid of any real humor that shows how wound up he is, “he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know the man, okay?” He pulls out the empty chair next to Harry and sits down, elbows propped on the table and chin resting on clasped hands. “If he’d been involved, there was no reason for him to come back that night, but he did. His uniform was ripped in places, and I couldn’t even tell if it was blood on his shirt or if he was just wearing a red and white top. He didn’t do this.” 

Harry remembers that Niall saw Louis that night, saw him when Bryar was torturing him, and a shiver tiptoes down his spine. He remembers when he first saw Louis, barely on the brink consciousness, remembers how Louis whispered a broken _everywhere_ when Harry asked where it hurt. 

_Maybe he’s innocent._

“So what now?” 

There’s a pause, an uneasy moment where no one says anything, and Primrose tries to fit herself in the crook of Harry’s elbow. Something soft and warm presses into the side of Harry’s leg, and then a weight settles on top of his foot before he feels Kat trying to climb his way onto the chair. Niall notices too, and lifts the cat into his own lap, fingers moving in slow circles on the cat’s neck. 

“Find his father,” Harry’s mother speaks finally. “You know his surname. Track down the man, find out who he is and what he does. You can’t make an intelligent move without knowing your opponent.” 

Niall seems to consider this, and then he holds Kat out towards Harry. “Is there anything else you need from me at the moment?” 

“Not that I can think of.” 

Niall collects the letter from the table, rolls it back and it disappears in his jacket. “I’ll be in touch,” Niall says, and then he’s walking out of the council room. 

“Remember, Captain,” the queen calls out, and Niall halts in his steps, turning around to face her, “you play the game. Don’t let the game play you.”

And then Niall is gone, leaving Harry alone with his mother. Harry should go too because he really doesn’t have any business being here anymore, but there’s this nagging feeling — this impulse — to tell her everything. He eyes the two guards standing by the closed door, one hand on the hilts of their weapons and the other ready for combat. 

“You’re lingering,” his mother points out and stretches her arms out. Harry tries to pass the dog to her, but she shakes her head at him fondly. “You know this one doesn’t care for me,” she tsks and takes the cat from Harry. 

“That’s not true,” Harry disagrees, even though he knows it’s true. Primrose doesn’t care much for anyone apart from Harry and Niall and sometimes Gemma, if she’s feeling generous. “We love Mummy, don’t we, love? We do.” Prim simply makes a soft noise but otherwise shows no signs of movement. 

“Harry,” his mother says his name like she knows he’s stalling, putting off something she should’ve known earlier, and he glances up at her from under his lashes, cheek pressed against Prim’s fur. “What is it?”

Harry sighs, feels his stomach twist uncomfortably, and something in his chest comes loose, floating around his heart in a way that makes him a bit jittery. He turns to the two men standing guard and asks, “Could you give us a moment, please?” 

“What’s going on, Harry?”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just blinks at the men until his mother presumably nods at them, and they silently shuffle outside, closing the door shut behind them. Harry keeps his fingers buried behind Prim’s ears, scratching softly just the way she likes. “I need to tell you something about Louis,” Harry blurts out, any chance of doing this calmly just shot through. His mother stares at him in confusion, mouth pulled down at the corners and eyebrows pinched. 

“You’re making me nervous, dear, what is it?” 

The words just spill out from him when he mumbles, “He’s my soulmate,” disappearing in soft, white fur, drowning the empty room in something heavy. A moment passes, or maybe time stills, who knows, because all Harry is aware of is the way his heart is trying to break free of his ribs. _He’s my soulmate._ The weight of those words hits him again, the truth in them knocking his breath somewhere far away across the black velvet and against the ivory walls. _He’s my soulmate._ It sounds so simple, so very, very simple when said like that, and, really, how many ways are there to say it? 

When he’s met with nothing but quiet, Harry risks a glance at his mother, who is already looking back at him, blue eyes stunned and mouth parted on an exhale, like his words stole her breath, just like they did his. “He’s what?” The way she asks is subdued, her expression morphing into something more grave, eyes cautious and body still. 

“He’s my person.” Admitting it out loud to his mother cracks something in him, opens a lock he didn’t know was in place and it all floods out of him. “You know I have one, mum, you’ve known for ages. And I’m — I _felt_ it that night, when he returned home in the dead of the night and Bryar ripped his skin open.” Strangely, he can taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. As if on cue, something in his shoulder blade burns. “I felt it when he was taking on those people in Gemma’s room. I was in the ballroom, and it knocked me down to my knees. And I saw him. The next day, I saw him when Arfa was cleaning him up. It’s him, mother. I was there when he was hurting and it was hurting me too.”

Once again, the room is met with nothing but heavy silence, and his mother is staring at him in astonishment, her jaw dropped in a very unqueenly manner. Harry focuses on the way Prim’s fur feels like spun silk underneath his fingertips, the way she’s snuggling closer to him, and tries to ignore the fact that his mother is speechless — a feat that is hard to accomplish for anyone. 

Finally, when the stillness of the room is too unsettling and the knot in Harry’s chest becomes painful, he whispers, “Say something.” 

And then something flickers in his mother’s pale eyes, the surprise giving way to something clear, and she asks, “Does he know?” 

“No,” Harry answers immediately, and suddenly his palms are clammy because, yes, there is the possibility that Louis knows. He didn’t let on that he knew, didn’t ask Harry about it, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t _know._ “I don’t know,” Harry amends with a sinking feeling in his gut, “Please, don’t say anything to him. I don’t know if he knows, but I don’t want him to know.”

“Excuse me?” Her bewildered expression speaks volumes, though Harry isn’t sure what to make of it. “What do you mean, you don’t want him to know?” 

Now it’s Harry’s turn to give her an incredulous look, the anxious feeling fading for just a moment. “We don’t know anything about him, mum. He very well could be the reason we don’t know where Gemma is right now. I don’t want him to be able to hold this over us.”

The queen frowns at him, says, “That isn’t fair,” and Harry wonders just how they’re related. Of course it isn’t fair. Nothing about this situation is fair. Gemma was never meant to be kidnapped days before her wedding. Harry was never meant to find his soulmate, only to learn that he doesn’t even _like_ the person — that said person could have played a part in his sister’s disappearance. 

“Of course it isn’t fair,” he tells his mother, “I didn’t ask for any of this. But what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.” _Please, please,_ he thinks at Louis, _please be clueless about this._ “We can end it without him finding out.”

That’s not what he meant to say. It is so very much not what he meant to say, but now that the words are out and hanging in the air between them, he can’t take them back. All he can do is think about the possibility — they _can_ end it. Louis won’t have to know a damn thing, and Harry wouldn’t have to feel the pain of a leather whip again. 

“It’s possible, right?” Harry sounds desperate, clinging to the sudden beacon of hope, “We can find a priestess, _someone,_ who knows how to sever soulbonds? I’ve read about it.”

“That’s not fair, Harry,” his mother repeats. She sounds serious, borderline offended that Harry would ever consider keeping such a thing to himself. “You know it isn’t fair to him, dear. He has a right to know.”

Harry says nothing, chewing on his bottom lip, biting on it hard enough to draw blood, and then, without a conscious command from his brain, he just stops. He tastes blood and winces at the sting when he runs his tongue over the bitten flesh, his mind a mantra of _he feels the pain you feel._

“I’ll talk to him,” he compromises, fingers stilling behind Prim’s ears as she twists and licks up the side of his neck, nipping at his chin playfully. His mother smiles at him, just barely, and reaches out to squeeze his knee. She looks worried still, eyes full of concern, and Harry watches as they slowly fill with tears. He’s out of his chair at once, kneeling by her side and carefully wrapping one arm around her, trapping Primrose in between them. “It’ll be okay, mum, I promise. I’ll talk to Louis, and we’re going to find Gemma. I swear we will.”

He feels his mother’s lips press against his hairline, and he closes his eyes, savoring the comfort that washes over him. He doesn’t know what he’s in for, really — doesn’t know what he’s going to have to deal with when he faces Louis again, but right now, it’s okay. The silence in the room isn’t weighted anymore, isn’t pressing down on him and strangling his breath out. He’s going to get Louis to talk, one way or another, and he’s going to help Niall. He trusts Niall, knows there isn’t anyone better equipped to find Gemma than his best friend, but he isn’t going to stand by and watch as everyone else does what a brother should do. 

_I’ll bring you back safely,_ he thinks and hopes his sister can hear him. 

▴▴▴

Harry ends up strolling aimlessly through the palace halls until he finds himself back in the stables. He stops at all the stalls, watching the horses from behind the stall doors, reaching out to pet if they approach him. He has his favorites, of course, and there’s a few that aren’t quite that fond of him but none that despise him. That’s a bit of a feat, honestly, considering how many of them absolutely refuse to let certain people near them or on them. Valeria, for example, will let everyone near her except for one of Harry’s guards. Malachi doesn’t care who touches him, doesn’t care who walks him around, but he won’t allow anyone apart from Niall and a few others to ride him. He’s one of two stallions that Harry hasn’t been able to win over, and it’s something Niall likes to remind him of occasionally. It’s alright, though, because Niall’s own horse adores Harry. 

He stops outside Nova’s stall, elbows perched on the wooden door and feels a small smile playing along his lips as the stallion nears him. Unlike Darling, Nova’s coat is a lively chestnut color that shines like darkened gold under the sun. Harry stays absolutely still now, doesn’t move even when there’s barely an inch separating them and lets Nova’s forehead press against his own, focusing on the horse’s smooth, steady breathing to calm himself down. This is his favorite place to be. Darling is just two stalls down, he knows, and he could just as easily find comfort in her, but there’s something different about the way he never has to ask anything of Nova, despite the fact that they don’t spend too much time together. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he was Harry’s before he was Niall’s, and that connection never really went away. Even now, Nova does nothing, just stands there as Harry brings his arms up to wrap around Nova’s neck. 

His mother’s words from earlier echo in his head, _It isn’t fair to him_ mocking him. Before knowing who Louis really is, Harry always assumed he would get along with his soulmate. He can’t remember a life when he didn’t feel every bit of his soulmate’s pain, doesn’t recall ever thinking that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t like them. He’d been desperate to find his person, give them a safe haven and keep them protected from all the terrible things that kept hurting them. Never did he imagine that his soulmate might be complicit in his sister’s kidnapping. He also never, ever imagined what he proposed to his mother earlier — severing the bond. He doesn’t even how that’s possible — if it is. He’s only read about it here and there, hints hidden between passages about other things. 

“What do I do?” he whispers into the miniscule space between them. 

In lieu of a response, Nova exhales a deep, fluttering breath, something that says, _I feel safe with you,_ something that says, _it’s going to be okay._ Harry doesn’t know how, hasn’t the slightest clue what he’s supposed to do and how he’s meant to sort everything out, but before he has another thought, Nova pulls out of Harry’s arms and comes even closer to put his head on Harry’s shoulder. It makes Harry feel better, loosens the ugly knot in his chest as he brings up a hand to smooth behind Nova’s ears. “You like me best, don’t you?” This time he gets nothing more than a quiet sigh, but it’s enough. “I love you too.”

Harry pulls back to kiss the singular white spot above Nova’s left eye. He’s about to say goodbye when he hears a disgruntled whine, and his head immediately turns in its direction. He can see Darling poking her head out of her stall, standing at an angle and staring directly at Harry with betrayed eyes. _Traitor,_ is what she would say to him if she could speak. He cuts his goodbye with Nova short, barely calls a hello in Goliath’s direction before he’s standing in front of Darling, fighting back his fond smile. 

“Hello, my Darling,” he greets softly, and she simply blows through her nose quietly, making it obvious she isn’t very happy with him. Harry lets his forehead fall against her, and when she doesn’t step back, he smiles. Silently, he pulls out a rice cake from his pocket and holds it in his palm in front of her — a peace offering. After a contemplative moment and slow blinks, she accepts it, leaving Harry’s hand wet, but he doesn’t mind — doesn’t care in the slightest when he wipes it on his trousers. “You’ll always be my favorite,” he tells her, and it’s true. He loves Nova dearly, cares for them all, but there’s a special place in his heart for the mare. He stays there, leaning against the door and stroking the side of her coat. 

“I’m lost, babes,” Harry says quietly just to get the words out, watches Darling’s ears quirk as she listens to him. There’s nothing she can do for him, but there’s a sense of safety that she brings to him, this encompassing feeling of peace that he only feels when he’s with her. It’s like all his worries get muted, buried under her calming essence. So he spends time with her whenever things get too much and it feels like something in him might fall apart. It helps to just say things, even if he doesn’t ever get an answer. Sometimes it’s enough just to have listening ears. So he stays there and tells her about Louis, about blue eyes and a broken boy, about all the distressing and confusing details that come with Louis, and she listens. 

And it’s enough for now. 


	2. then just set me free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a lot of theatrics happen. have fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello, hope you enjoyed the first chapter. thank u to everyone who commented or reached out to me on tumblr, i rlly rlly appreciate it. this is chapter 2, and the next one might be a little while so im sorry abt the wait in advance! lemme know what u think of this so far and what u think might happen next, love u. this is Not edited as of right now, so many apologies for any and all mistakes u might find.
> 
> and a happy happy Happy birthday to cloudy, to whom this chapter is dedicated ♡

_“Love isn’t soft, like those poets say. Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close."_ — _Stephen King_

* * *

The next morning, more than two hours before noon, Harry lingers around the palace gates. When he gets there, trailed by all five of his guards, he’s shivering. There’s a thin layer of snow on the ground and he’s wearing a mahogany coat that brushes past his knees, a russet scarf wrapped around his neck and covering his ears. He’s even wearing gloves because the air is icy and his fingers still feel numb. He went to Niall’s room first, but Niall is Niall and his room was empty when Harry got there this morning. Of course, no one really knew what he was doing or where he was, but they did tell him he hasn’t left the palace grounds, yet, so here Harry is – waiting. He’s just finished his cup of tea when he sees Niall approaching, Nova walking beside him. He isn’t carrying his sword and Harry can’t see any daggers on his belt, but Niall isn’t one to go in defenceless anywhere. Knowing him, he probably has a blade or two hidden in his sleeves and boots, hidden from sight but easy to access. When his eyes fall on Harry, he doesn't slow down, but the wariness actually rolls off him in waves. 

“Could you get Darling, please?” Harry says to Jasper, since he is one of the few guards that can get Darling to listen to them. Jasper nods and walks away just as Niall stops in front of Harry, one hand on Nova’s neck. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, and his tone is so tired and so resigned that it nearly makes Harry want to laugh. Instead of responding to Niall, Harry holds up his palm in a silent question, waits a few seconds, and then Nova cranes his neck enough to press his forehead against Harry’s gloved hand. Niall sighs. “With all due respect, Your Highness, you’re wasting my time.”

Harry quirks a brow at Niall and moves to stand in front of him. “Where are you off to?” he asks it lightly, not even making eye contact with Niall, instead choosing to reach out and touch the badges on Niall’s coat, intentionally leaving one crooked. 

“Getting some answers,” Niall responds. Before Harry can get another word in, Niall narrows his eyes and shakes his head. “No, sir, you cannot come along with me. Absolutely not.”

One would think Harry would have more authority over someone who essentially works for him, but even though he can just tell he’s fighting a losing battle, Harry still insists, “I want to _help,_ Niall.” 

“Then stay here,” Niall gestures towards the palace. “There is literally no way you can help me by tagging along. Literally none.” Harry open his mouth and is about to disagree when Niall pinches his lips between his fingers, completely disregarding the fact that they aren’t alone and Harry’s guards are watching the scene unfold. “Listen to me for once, you big oaf. You come with me and it’s only going to distract me, because I’ll be too busy looking out for you to pay all my attention to whoever the hell is pulling my strings. Got it? Just do me a favor this one time and stay within the gates. Please.”

Harry stares unflinchingly at Niall, who doesn’t so much as blink, and it’s Harry who looks away first when he hears the telltale sound of Darling’s rhythmic steps. Sure enough, when he turns towards the noise, he spots Jasper and Darling both making their way across the snow dusted ground. Harry looks at Niall again and Niall eyes tighten, like he’s silently warning Harry not to do anything stupid, and Harry snorts; Niall truly is so dramatic at times. 

“Can we compromise?” Niall says nothing, just taps his foot impatiently and runs his fingers through Nova’s wild mane. “How about I come with you to the edge of the woods? No, listen, shh –” The words rush out of him because he can Niall already preparing a defense and that’s just not acceptable. He clamps a hand over Niall’s parted mouth, and Niall looks affronted by the action, but Harry doesn’t care. This has been enough of a debacle as it is, what dignity have they got left to lose, anyway? “Let me come with you, please, I just want to talk to you.”

“Talk to me when I get back.” 

“Niall.”

“Harry.”

_“Captain.”_

_“Your Highness.”_

Harry scowls, feeling a mix of annoyance and laughter bubbling in his chest, but the former takes over. “This is ridiculous, Niall. I’m not a child, you know? I can take care of myself.” 

Something in Niall’s face softens and he throws an arm around Harry’s shoulders, walking aimlessly to the left and effectively putting some distance between themselves and the guards. “I’m not saying you’re incapable of looking after yourself, Harry,” he starts, and Harry just knows that whatever is coming next is something Niall has memorized and can recite it all in his sleep if he had to. Sometimes it’s just the absolute worst having your best friend also be your paid guardian. “I’m saying it’s my job – all of our jobs – to make sure you’re safe. I can’t do that job if I’m meeting some insane bastard and also keeping an eye on you.”

“Okay, mother, listen to me, I’ll go out for a stroll after you leave, anyway, so why don’t I just tag along with you for a bit while these five grown men, who are fully armed, by the way, trail after us?” Niall glares at him, actually shoots daggers with his eyes. Harry simply smiles. “When we near the woods, I’ll leave my sister’s fate in your hands and you can take all the glory for yourself.”

Niall’s gaze is so stony Harry’s afraid it might turn him to dust, but then Niall says, “If heaven and hell exist, you’re definitely going to hell without me.” 

“I’ll probably find a way to drag you there with me,” Harry says easily and smacks an obnoxious kiss onto Niall’s forehead. Niall grumbles something under his breath, but Harry’s already moving away and doesn’t quite catch it. He walks up to Darling and murmurs a quiet greeting her ear before climbing atop the saddle and tugging gently at the reins. Niall is leading the way, Nova walking them out of the palace grounds at a leisurely pace; Darling follows close behind as Harry’s guards keep a safe distance from him. Once they’re out, Harry falls in step next to Niall, both of their horses walking slowly close enough for Niall and Harry to touch easily. 

“So, what is it?” Niall asks, glancing over at Harry for a moment before looking straight ahead. “What’s so important you couldn’t wait for me to get back?” 

All of it, Harry wants to say. It’s all important and he didn’t sleep well the night before because every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was the hazy blue of Louis’ eyes when he admitted to recognizing the seal and every second that passes is another second that Gemma is somewhere far away from her family with God knows who. 

He settles on asking about something that neither of them have talked about, yet. “Do you know anything about where Liam is? Are they searching for him?”

Harry expected to hear more about Liam St. Clair, considering the man is the heir to his father’s throne and is engaged to Gemma. In all fairness, there should have been more talk of his whereabouts and what was being done to find him, bring him back to safety. As it is, Harry’s heard next to nothing about the prince, aside from the whispers that carry between guards and the servant staff when they think no one is listening. T

“They’re looking for him, yes,” Niall responds with a sigh, but his words are laced with a tinge of bitterness that Harry doesn’t miss. “Mali said – he’s the Captain, remember? – he told me their priority is finding Liam and that his men will also be on the lookout for Gemma, because in all likelihood, her and Liam are probably together. Said he’d prefer to lead his men himself, without putting our two guards together as one unit,” Niall says the last part without even trying to mask his resentment. 

“Is that jealousy I smell?” Harry goes for a teasing tone, but even as he poses the question, he knows that isn’t it. Niall isn’t the kind to get jealous of another man in a similar position of power. He isn’t insecure in his abilities, doesn’t need to prove himself to anyone, not anymore. There’s no reason for him to be jealous of someone who won’t be around after the wedding is over. 

“Not jealousy,” Niall confirms, and he doesn’t even sound defensive when he says it; it’s just a fact. “I don’t know why, but there’s just something about the man that makes me not want to trust him. I _don’t_ trust him, Harry.” 

It sounds like an echo of something Niall has said before about not wanting to trust the other captain, and hearing the worry again does nothing to calm Harry down. “What does that mean?” he prods, watching his friend closely, because this has to be more than a hunch. Niall doesn’t simply _not_ trust people without having some legitimate ground. 

“Just feel like he knows more than he’s letting on,” Niall chews on his bottom lip, eyes trained straight ahead on their path. “Why would he want to keep our men separated when we could work together as one?” 

And, yes, it’s a fair point to make. With both of the royal guards working together and all minds put at the same task, it would be easier to find Liam and Gemma faster. Harry doesn’t know Mali, doesn’t know much about how the other other man leads his men and what kind of Captain he is, but he knows Niall is a damn good one. What reason could he possibly have to keep Niall away from his men?

Something hot unfurls in Harry’s chest and ice tip toes down his spine when he asks Niall, “Do you think he knows something we don’t?” 

“I don’t know,” Niall sighs, “I’m going to find out, though, trust me.”

Harry does. He trusts Niall with his life and knows Niall will do whatever it takes to get to the bottom of this, so he lets this particular conversation drop. There are other things that have been gnawing at him, anyway. Things like palace guards who are implicated in your sister’s kidnapping and turn out to be your soulmate. 

“Niall, can you find someone who knows how to break soulbonds?” Harry asks slowly just as sprinkles of snow begin to dust their coats and melt into Darling’s white hair. It’s just a soft flurry and Harry hopes it doesn’t turn into a heavy snowfall. 

“Why?” Niall shoots back, turning his head to stare incredulously at Harry. Harry blinks back silently, shrugs to say, _why do you think,_ and Niall’s eyes widen. “Have you even told him?” 

“No.”

_“Harry!”_

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Niall, I’ll talk to him, okay?” Niall just keeps staring at him disapprovingly and Harry feels like he’s being reprimanded by a parent. Honestly, sometimes Harry wonders if they were switched at birth and Niall was really meant to be the crown prince, given how easy he finds it to to forget their respective roles. “Can you find someone soon?” 

“Depends on your definition of soon,” Niall says with a raise of his brow, “I’m a bit preoccupied with all of this,” he waves a hand, “so I think you’ll have to wait until I’m free.” 

“You’re useless,” Harry tells him without any bite to the words. And then, more sincerely, he asks, “Have you seen him? Since yesterday, I mean.” 

Niall shakes his head, tugs at Nova’s reigns lightly to steer him towards the woods, and then says, “You should go see him, though. Maybe explain yourself a bit.”

“Explain what?” 

The look Niall gives him just then should be enough to burn grown men to ashes and Harry immediately regrets the question because he knows what's coming next. “Harry, you called him a liar and then _compelled_ him in front of everyone,” Niall says it like he can’t believe he has to spell it out like this and Harry feels just a little embarrassed about it. “Mind you, this was right when he’d woken up after being beaten to a pulp for no damn reason.”

“My actual mother gave me a talking to about this,” Harry says defensively, feeling a pout take over his face, “I don't need it from you.”

“I’m just saying, H. At the very least, he deserves to know his soulmate is our bratty prince.” 

“I’m not _bratty,”_ Harry whines indignantly, and then extends an arm to swat at Niall. “And you’re the worst.” 

That gets a small laugh out of Niall and whatever tension there had been is broken. They ride through the quiet back roads towards the woods in easy silence after that, Harry catching snowflakes on his hand, before Niall speaks up again. “You aren’t coming with me all the way, Harry.” 

Harry doesn’t bother hiding the roll of his eyes, even though Niall can’t see it. “I know, Captain, you made it very clear. Sometimes it’s like you forget that you can’t actually order me around.”

“Oh, can’t I?” 

“You’re a menace.”

Harry thinks they’re done talking about it, thinks the dreadful topic is squared away for some later unfortunate time, but then Niall asks, “Do you really want to end it, H? Like, are you sure?”

No. No, he isn’t sure about any of this, never thought he’d be here, but he takes a moment to mull over the question, lets his thoughts wander to Louis’ bloody wounds and the phantom pain that has follow Harry around for years. When he answers, his voice sounds bitter to his own ears and he doesn’t know why. “Would you wants to feel someone else’s pain for as long as you live?”

“That’s not what I –” Niall cuts himself off and Harry peeks a glance at his friend to find him looking frustrated. Harry’s not sure who its directed towards. “It’s like... some people never get to meet their soulmate, you know? Some never know that they have one and you do,” Niall presses on and Harry doesn’t know where he’s going with this, isn’t sure if he _wants_ to know, but Niall keeps talking, “you’ve known for so long and now you _know,_ Harry. You know who it is and you’re just... you’re willing to give that up?” 

Is he? Before meeting Louis, Harry was sure he just wanted to find his person and keep them out of harm’s way, wanted to offer them a safe haven in whatever way he could. Now, given their circumstances and Louis’ muddled involvement in Gemma’s situation, Harry’s pretty certain he doesn’t want to keep their bond intact. Why should he, if there’s a way to sever it?

“Have you ever...” Harry’s words trail off, get swept away with the snow, and he has to clear his throat before he can speak again. “Niall, have you ever wondered if you have a soulmate?” 

“Sometimes,” Niall responds easily. 

“But you don’t know, do you?” Harry doesn’t need to ask. If Niall knew for sure that he’s got his own person out there, maybe this conversation would be different. Maybe it wouldn’t be happening at all. When Niall stays pointedly silent, Harry adds, “Imagine if you woke up one night feeling like your body was on _fire_ because a stranger was being hurt somewhere. How would you feel? What would you do, knowing you can’t do anything to help them?” 

Again, Niall is quiet. The only sound is the whisper of snow in the air, overshadowed by the rhythmic click of Darling and Nova’s steps. 

“Every single scar that Louis bears is as much mine as it is his,” he confesses quietly, slowly. For some reason, the words seem to hold more significance when they’re hanging in the space between them. “Every single scream he lets out, dies strangled within me. I don’t know what he’s been through to have gotten all his wounds, but I do know I’d like to stop knowing what every cut and bruise feels like. Maybe it’s horrible, maybe it’s selfish of me, but I think – I think I’ve had enough.”

Almost belatedly, Harry thinks of the rare occasion when soulmates fall in love and get married. He wonders how people can go through life like that – knowing they feel every bit of pain their soulmate does. He doesn’t understand how they don’t lose their minds, knowing their soulmate feels their pain as a physical ache. 

But, still, Niall says nothing and another hush falls over them as the tops of the pine trees become clear and then, a few minutes later, the clearing leading into the woods comes into view. Darling and Nova trot across it, neither of them concerned about the light snow falling around them, and Niall brings Nova to a halt at the edge of the clearing. Darling comes to stop beside him, and Harry looks over his shoulder to see that his guards are only a few paces behind him. 

“Go home, H,” is what Niall says when he finally speaks. He doesn’t look at Harry, just stares right at the trees as if he can see through them. When Harry makes no move to turn back around, Niall spares him a look. His eyes are softer than they’ve been all morning, but Harry doesn’t miss the rigid set of his shoulders. “I’m serious, Harry, if I come back and you’re still here, I’ll skin you alive. I don’t give a damn if you’ve got royal blood your veins.”

“Reign in the empty threats, Captain,” is what Harry settles on saying, because he knows that Niall is warring with himself. The Captain in him is at war with Harry’s friend, and Harry knows, objectively speaking, there’s only one right thing for him to do. “Go find my sister, I’ll see you at home.” 

He would stay, mill about to see if anything catches his eye, but now it’s like there’s an itch under his skin, and he needs to see Louis. He’s not even sure what for, as he doesn’t exactly plan on admitting anything or everything to the man, but still. He wants to see Louis. Maybe they don’t like each other – which is a strange, strange concept for Harry to wrap his mind around, because everyone likes him – but they can still work with each other. At the very least, the difference in their social ranks means Louis has to answer to Harry. 

Harry presses a kiss to the top of Niall’s head, not caring for the audience they have and the indignant little sound Niall makes, and says his goodbyes. 

▴▴▴

Getting back to the castle takes longer than it should, because Harry urges Darling off her trail and she takes him through the countryside, flecks of snow settling in his hair and sitting on his coat, disappearing where they fall on Darling. He doesn’t like it much, isn’t very fond of the snow in general, but it’s a welcome distraction today. He should’ve covered his head, but he thinks it’s some kind of pretty when white shimmers against the ends of his curls. The cold that settles into his bones, however, is an inconvenience, and precisely why he doesn’t care for winter. 

After saying goodbye to Darling and stopping by his own rooms to change into something a bit more cozy, Harry ambles down to the room Louis is still occupying. He pauses when he gets there, unsure of whether he should knock or just walk in without warning. He’s feeling a bit unnerved by his conversation with his mother yesterday and then earlier with Niall, and he isn’t quite sure what to expect from Louis today. Harry saw a softness in him that first day when he was in tatters and even yesterday when he was being interrogated, but there was also a blunt edge to him when he was answering questions. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but there is something about Louis that feels unstable, that feels something like uncharted territory for Harry. 

_You’re the crown prince and he’s a guard,_ he reminds himself. _He answers to you._ It’s not exactly humble thinking, Harry knows, but it’s true. Louis Tomlinson answers to him. And he doesn’t need to be humble. A bit of arrogance suits the crown. 

Casting aside doubts about what to do, Harry gently but confidently pushes the door open. When he steps inside, the first thing he sees is Tomlinson laying on the bed, his back draped with a satiny sheet. There are two girls in the room that Harry doesn’t recognize when they turn to look at him. One of them is sitting on the foot of the bed with Louis’ legs in her lap, and the other is holding his hand. They both scramble to get to their feet when they see Harry, and he lets them, not entirely sure what they’re attempting to do. But they simply bow, murmuring quiet greetings that Harry can’t quite hear. Harry nods at them, then turns to the man standing guard at the door. 

“Would you mind stepping out and giving us some privacy?” 

The man looks uneasy, most likely battling between following whatever his commands are and complying with Harry’s wishes. His eyes go from Harry to Louis and back to Harry before he says, “Yes, sir,” and is out the door without another word. And then it’s just Harry with Louis and the two girls, who still look like they haven’t a clue what to do. Come to think of it, Harry doesn’t either, not really. They’re obviously Louis’ sisters; they have the same facial structure, the same blue eyes but maybe more innocent. They both have the same softness and defiance that Harry saw in Louis — must be a family trait, then. 

“I’m Harry,” he says, as if he needs an introduction. It’s the polite thing to do, though, his mother _has_ taught him that much. She’d be disappointed if he let his arrogance take over his manners completely. “And you are?” 

“I’m Félicité, Your Highness,” says the one wearing an off white frock. She might be nearly as tall as Harry and there’s something in her blue eyes that spells a hint of trouble. She’s standing with her shoulders thrown back and her chin held high, almost as though she’s daring Harry to do something. The other one in a soft lilac dress nudges her, meaning to be subtle but it’s not quite possible when Harry’s looking directly at them both. 

“My name is Charlotte, Your Highness,” she says with a charming smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” This one looks... almost docile. She looks almost harmless, and trusting what little Harry knows about the Tomlinsons as of yet, he would bet good money that charm is what she uses to thwart people. 

“It’s lovely to meet you both,” Harry tells them and it isn’t exactly a lie. He’s sure they’re lovely people with lovely hearts, but that’s really neither here nor there. He came here to talk to Louis and he can’t very well do that if there are curious eyes and ears on them. “However,” he continues in that same pleasant tone, “I would like to speak with your brother privately about some things. Would you mind stepping out for just a little bit? One of the guards can escort you to an available room.” 

Félicité blinks at him and Charlotte continues smiling in that same unperturbed way. “As you wish, Your Highness,” she curtsies. It’s small and quick, but the gesture is still there. Félicité doesn’t follow suit, and Harry wonders how she feels about him, wonders what Louis has told them about him. Judging from Félicité’s cool demeanor, Harry doesn’t set his hopes very high. The girls both turn to Louis without another word and Félicité kneels by side, one hand lightly touching the side of his face. She says something to him that Harry doesn’t catch and watches as Charlotte does the same. Then they bow to Harry once more and on their way out, Félicité stops just before she passes Harry. 

“Be gentle with him, please,” she says to him. She says it without any malice, but there’s something accusatory about the words that settles around Harry’s chest like a vice. He wonders again what Louis has told them and what they both see when they look at Harry. She doesn’t give him a chance to answer, though. As soon as she says it, she’s walking past Harry and following Charlotte out the door, leaving him alone with Louis. 

Suddenly there’s an uneasy flutter in Harry’s chest, something tugging at his stomach, and he wishes he could smother it. It’s only Louis Tomlinson. He’s just another guard. Disregarding the fact that there’s a soul connection between the two, he is just another guard and Harry is the crown prince. There’s no need for Harry to feel nervous. 

He takes confident steps closer to where Louis is laying face down on the bed, but Louis beats him to the punch before he can say anything. 

“I would stand up and bow in protocol, Your Highness, but I have strict orders from your medic that forbid me from moving at the moment,” comes Louis’ now slightly familiar voice. His words are quiet, a little scratchy, like he hasn’t been talking much, and there’s not exactly disrespectful about what he says, but his tone is almost... taunting. Harry remembers how Louis spoke to him, how much time he directly refused to answer a question and how he snapped at Harry in a room full of people. 

Harry bites down on his tongue, literally, and simply smiles. “I hope you’re feeling better than you did yesterday.” 

Now that he’s in front of Louis, he can look down and clearly see the change in Louis’ face. The swelling has gone down, but there’s still smudges of blue and green bruises left on his cheekbones and jaw, a jarring contrast against his otherwise pale skin. The cuts on his face that Harry can see look eons better than they did just a day ago, and that’s something, Harry supposes. Arfa is an excellent healer, Harry knows that, knows that her mother was a gifted healer and she made sure that Arfa learn everything before taking over, so it’s not really a _surprise_ that Louis looks less broken, less breakable. There’s no stinging pain right now, just a dull, monotonous ache that Harry can pretend isn’t there if he tries hard enough. But he’s still damaged goods. 

“Does it still hurt a lot?” Harry asks, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, he wishes he could grab them from the air between them and get rid of them. He sounds childish and insensitive, as if injuries like Louis’ stop hurting in such little time. It’s too late, though, because Louis opens his mouth and then closes it, closes his eyes, too, and Harry wonders what words he just bit back. 

“It’s nothing I can’t handle, Your Highness,” Louis says finally, and maybe Harry simply imagines the thinly veiled contempt in his voice. 

And, yes, Harry knows that Louis has felt much worse, knows it because he has felt it with Louis, so he isn’t sure what to do now, what to say now to comfort him. He’s not here for comfort, but there’s this tug on his heart, the reminder of a long held promise to keep his soulmate safe and sound. That’s not likely to happen now, Harry doesn’t know how to keep Louis out of harm’s way, but he can try his best to still uphold that promise to himself. He can try. He’s a good person and his intentions are good and he can _try_ , so he says, “If you need anything, you just have to stay the word.” 

To which Louis simply responds with, “Thank you.” 

There’s silence in the room then and it’s heavy and almost tangible, like Harry could reach out with his hand and touch the sour texture of it with his fingertips. Louis doesn’t say anything, continues staring at something in front of him and Harry’s almost, _almost_ sure that he isn’t actually looking at whatever is in his line of vision. Harry shuffles from one foot to another, hand going towards his hair to tug at it, but he stops midway. _You’re the crown prince. Stop being nervous._ So what if Louis’ being disrespectful by ignoring Harry’s presence? Harry can’t expect the man to get off the bed and bow in this condition. He can be the bigger person. He isn’t too proud to forget his manners. 

“You saw your sisters,” Harry prods when Louis stays quiet.

“Yes, I did,” Louis returns without even glancing in Harry’s direction. Harry waits for an elaboration, anything that suggests Louis is even mildly interested, but gets none. He bites down on his own tongue to keep from snapping in impatience. 

“How are they?” 

“They’re fine,” Louis answers, eyes still trained away from Harry. “They’re fine.”

 _Fine._ The word lingers in the air in front of Harry. He remembers Félicité and the way she spoke to him earlier, the very obvious protective hint in her words. Again, he wonders what Louis told them and how much, exactly, they know about what happened to their brother. “They will be back here soon, if you’d like,” Harry tells him, “I told you they’re well taken care of.” 

“You also compelled a truth out of me that I didn’t even realize I knew,” Louis says sharply, and this time his eyes dart to where Harry is standing. It takes one, two, three, four seconds for Louis to realize what he just said, because he clamps his jaw tightly and Harry feels phantom fingernails digging into soft flesh. 

Instead of lashing out at Louis, though, he settles for the truth. “I was trying to find answers to save my sister’s life.” Louis should understand, right? He has sisters — sisters he seems to love with everything in him. He should understand the predicament Harry is in. Anyone with a sibling should understand. “It wasn’t my intention to violate your boundaries, but I would do it again if it meant getting closer to finding Gemma.” 

Something like steel flashes behind Louis’ eyes. “Then, please, stop acting like you give half a damn about anyone else, least of all me.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Just like I remember you compelling me yesterday, I also haven’t forgotten when you compelled me to forget my pain.” His words sweep over Harry like a winter chill. “I need you to, please, stop hopping back on forth on this imaginary line you’ve drawn in the sand. You can be perfectly honest with me — and everyone else, if you so wish — that the only thing you care about is finding your sister. Don’t waste any efforts trying to play hot and cold.” 

This is not... Harry has to blink several times to make sure he hasn’t misheard Louis. This is not the way any guard addresses a member of the royal family, let alone the crown prince. Harry doesn’t know if this is the result of Louis’ confinement in this room, or if he has always been this insolent. That can’t be it, because surely Niall wouldn’t allow a member of his guard to be so out of line. “I’m not trying to play anything,” Harry says finally when he finds his voice again. "I understand I may not be your favorite person in the world, but that does not mean that I am trying to play games with you, or anyone else. My intentions have always been clear.” There’s a rustling by the door, then, and Harry spots Primrose meandering inside the room, and tension dissipates from his shoulders that he hadn’t realized was there. “Just because I care most about finding my sister,” Harry continues as he watches Prim walk slowly towards him, “it doesn’t mean that I don’t have any compassion for others.” Prim circles his legs and Harry crouches down to pet her, finding immediate comfort in her familiarity. “I took away your pain because you didn’t deserve to feel it, not because of some ulterior motive.” 

“With all due respect, Your Highness,” Louis scoffs, and his tone leaves no question about how much respect he thinks is due, “I feel compelled to argue that it is not up to you to determine who does and does not deserve to feel pain. And it _certainly_ isn’t up to you to determine whose pain who can simply _take away_ , like you’re a god.” 

Louis sits up then. Before Harry has a chance to really process his words and feel anything besides simmering anger, Louis is sitting up and he’s sitting up way too fast, and there’s fire. There’s a fire licking up and down Harry’s back and Louis is — Louis is laying on his back, his eyes shut tight and hands clenched into fists, nails digging deep into his skin and Harry knows this because he feels it, too. He feels it when Louis bites down on his lip, hard, and he wonders if there is blood. There should be blood. All he feels are the flames chasing each other on his back. 

“Louis —” he starts, but then stops short because he doesn’t know what to say and because he sounds out of breath, like he ran for hours without breathing once and it’s not catching up to him.

“It isn’t up to you to determine whose pain who can take away on a whim,” Louis repeats through gritted teeth. 

There’s a tug of war happening within Harry, and he kind of feels like he’s walking on a tightrope at the same time, and in the end it’s his anger that wins over when he spits out, “Fine. Agonize yourself to your heart’s desire, see if I give even half a damn.” And he feels unlike himself when he throws Louis’ words back at him with so much venom, but it’s what Louis wanted. It’s what he asked for, quite explicitly. Harry picks up Prim, who licks at Harry’s face and nuzzles into his neck for a moment, but then struggles in his arms. “What is it, lovely?” he murmurs, but she only continues to squirm in his arms, so he lets her go. Prim noses at his knee and Harry strokes her face, and then hops on the bed. Harry watches, bewildered, as his dog lays her head gingerly on top of Louis’ naked torso and Louis’ fingers, almost instinctively, find their place in her soft fur. The same dog who never takes a liking to strangers is comforting someone she doesn’t know, and Louis doesn’t seem to be alarmed by a strange dog on his body. 

Harry’s torn. A small part of him is glad — relieved, even — that Prim is able to provide Louis some ounce of comfort that he can’t, but the bigger, more dominant part of him is simply betrayed. That’s _his_ dog, that’s _his_ baby. She has always been _Harry’s._ She likes Niall, sure, and she feels at home with Gemma, but she is Harry’s. She doesn’t know who Louis is, so why is she sighing with her head on Louis’ stomach? Why does she sound so disappointed that she doesn’t have Louis’ full attention? His confusion only increases when Louis breathes out a broken _Sorry, sweetheart._

“Rosey,” Harry calls out to her, irrational jealousy leaking into his voice. “Let’s go, babe.” The dog doesn’t even glance in Harry’s direction, but Louis’ grave eyes do flick to him. 

“You can take her,” he says, but the way his hand keeps moving in her fur and the way she stays there next to him, relaxed as ever, says something entirely different. 

“It’s fine,” Harry says, and it’s not fine at all. He feels like he’s losing something here, like he’s shedding some of his dignity or admitting defeat, but he can’t do anything about it. He can’t force Prim away from Louis. He won’t. He can swallow his pride right now, because he does not want to let his guard down in front of Louis. “I hope you feel better and recover quickly, Louis.”

With that, Harry leaves the room without another look at Louis. He stops only to ask one of the guards for food, and then heads directly for his room. It’s warm in here. There’s wood burning low in the fireplace and it makes Harry want to crawl in his bed, hide under the blanket so he can forget the rest of the world, so he does. He pulls out a worn copy of his favorite book from the bookshelf and brings it up to his nose, breathing in the sweet, musky scent of old pages. He likes the smell of old books. Sirtoli’s stories have always been Harry’s favorite, the way she seamlessly connects words to create people and places and feelings, and the way she makes Harry get lost in her world. Harry gets in bed, pulls the blanket up to his chin, and lets the book fall open to page seventy-three. The words are old friends and Harry immediately feels at home, falling into that quiet space where it’s only him and no one else. The words start blurring in and out of focus, and the book feels heavy on his chest. Harry’s on the edge of consciousness when he feels something small and warm settle next to him and then everything goes soft and dark. 

▴▴▴

Niall is back. 

Harry fell asleep for hours without remembering falling asleep and now Niall is back and he is... livid. It isn’t like Niall doesn’t get angry or that Harry hasn’t seen Niall angry before. He remembers that one time, not long after Niall had been appointed Captain of the guard, when they’d gone out riding and Harry went down a trail that he knew he should have stayed clear of. Niall had been angry then. Harry was his responsibility and he’d lost him; that ride back to the palace is something Harry has no desire to revisit. The point is that Niall doesn’t get angry very often and he certainly doesn’t get angry often like he is now. 

He’s pacing in Harry’s room, hands tugging and pulling at his own hair in apparent frustration, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip. He’s wearing his uniform, dressed head to toe in Captain attire and he would look every bit the menacing force he can be — if it weren’t for the nervous ticks Harry has learned to pick up on. Captain Horan does not bite his lips and he does not pace anxiously in the prince’s room — that, and the fact that there are two cuts running down the length of his right cheek. Someone or something hurt him and he hasn’t said a word about it to Harry yet. 

“Can you just tell me what you found?” Harry asks again. He’s watching Niall from his bed, with a tray full of fruits and other foods in front of him. He pops a grape in his mouth winces through the sour taste of it. He’s been asking Niall the same question for far too long now without a single satisfactory answer and it’s starting to make him just a little impatient. Again, Niall just ignores Harry in favor of walking wall to wall, now chewing at his fingernails. “For the love of God, Niall, at least tell me what happened to your face.” 

Niall stops pacing and looks at Harry, his eyes cold, and says, “He had a knife.” 

Harry waits for more, anything more than four words to explain what has Niall so agitated and angry, but gets nothing. Niall resumes his pacing and Harry lets him do it for moment before curiosity eats through him and he gets up from the bed. He walks over to where Niall is, grabs his hand wordlessly when Niall protests, and drags his friend in the direction of the bathroom. He clamps his hand over Niall’s mouth when Niall complains about being handled like a child. “If you aren’t going to tell me what happened, then stop talking, Captain.” 

Niall rolls his eyes. “Fine, Your Highness.”

It makes Harry crack a smile and it’s nice. Just for a moment, it’s nice. He pushed Niall to sit at the edge of the bathtub and moves to wet a towel. He can picture Niall shaking his head behind him, but, really, it’s not like he can really stop Harry. He could try, but they both know who would win in the end. “Be still,” Harry says, even though Niall isn’t moving at all. They’ve done this so many times before. Holding Niall’s chin with one hand and tilting his face back, Harry dabs the wet towel at the dried blood on Niall’s cheek. 

“If you were any more gentle, I swear I wouldn’t even be able to feel you touching me,” Niall says slowly with his eyes closed. 

“What did I say about talking?” 

“Oh, right. Forgot I’m talking to the crown prince of all that is.” Even though Niall’s eyes are closed, Harry is sure that he’s rolling them again. 

“Just tell me what happened, you prick.” Harry presses down onto the cut more firmly, enough to make Niall flinch. There. Not so gentle now. 

“He had a knife when he came at me, but he lost his balance. Managed to scrape my cheek, but then he went down. Could’ve been much deeper if I wasn’t careful, but, well, I’m careful.” Niall opens his eyes. “Any more questions, Your Highness?” 

“Yes, actually.” Harry drops the towel, letting Niall know they’re done. “Tell me what you found there. That’s what you went for, so tell me what you found.” 

“You’re nagging again.” 

“I’m always nagging.”

“Oh, good to know you’re self aware.’ 

“Shut up, Niall, and talk.” 

“Shut up or talk, which is it?” Harry says nothing, just stares at Niall with what’s hopefully a blank expression, and Niall has the nerve to throw his head back and bark out a laugh. It’s mildly irritating, just a little bit, because he’s being a pain on purpose, but it also makes Harry feel a little lighter than he has in a long time. “Fine, okay. Can I at least get out of here first?” 

Harry refrains from clicking his tongue and lets Niall walk back to the bedroom. Niall goes to stand by one of the windows, turning his back to Harry and effectively not allowing him to be able to see Niall’s face. 

“There was a note,” Niall says finally, and this time he doesn’t stop after just a few words. “There was a note tucked inside a bottle and it says some things, things that I don’t like, things that you aren’t going to like. And there was also a man. There was someone hiding behind some trees and bushes. I didn’t realize he was there, there was no sound, I had a feeling, but there was no sound, so I didn’t realize he was there. Something happened, though, I think his foot caught on something and I saw him, but just a moment too late because he was able to nick my face. Son of a bitch. I don’t think he was meant to get caught.” 

Niall doesn’t talk this much, he never talks like this, but Harry doesn’t stop him. He just sits on the bed and watches his best friend stand by the window. He watches without being watched. 

“I got him down, H, I got him in a headlock and I had him knocked out in a minute. I went inside the cabin, right?” Niall lets out a humorless little laugh. “I went inside to see if I could find something to use, maybe a rope or an old cloth, anything, and — someone lives there, Haz. It wasn’t an empty cabin. It wasn’t homey, exactly, it didn’t seem like the inhabitant is overly attached to the place, but someone _lives there._ Or lived. Those bastards sent me to someone’s _home._ ”

“What did you find?” 

“Inside the cabin?” 

“Yes.” 

“There was... there was a bed. Hell, it was barely a bed, it was just some threadbare thing that resembled something to sleep on. There were clothes, dirty clothes, but they weren’t tattered. They were in good shape, they just needed a wash or two, I think. But there were... I found a knife there, Harry. It had dried blood on it. And bloodied ropes. Tattered, bloody ropes in the cabin.”

Louis came back home in bloody tatters — that’s how Niall described him that day, that Louis came back to the palace in bloody tatters. 

For a second, Harry’s mind is nothing but Louis stranded in that cabin, tied with bloody ropes and clothes clinging to his bloodied body. For a second, the world flashes red and Harry sees the blue of Louis’ eyes before the colors settle back into place.

“Louis was there,” he hears his voice say. “Did you find anything of Louis’ there?”

“No, I —” Niall stops and turns to look at Harry, his eyes somewhere far away. “I didn’t see anything of Louis’, but there were blood stains on the floor, like in a trail. So much dried blood.”

 _Louis’ blood,_ Harry corrects mentally. Niall saw Louis’ spilled blood in that cabin. That night when Harry was writhing in pain, Louis was bleeding in that cabin for who knows how long. “What else?”

“I used the ropes.” Harry feels his forehead crease in confusion and Niall shrugs. “I had to bring that man back here, he might be able to tell us something useful, so I used the ropes. Didn’t take that much to tie him since he was unconscious already, but dragging him back to the palace was hell. He’s here now, I have men watching over him.” 

“You brought him here? To the palace?” 

“He’s downstairs.” 

“I want to see him.” Harry gets up from the bed and Niall moves to step in his way. “What?” 

“You’re not talking to him before I do, so don’t even bother trying to fight me on it.” 

Harry considers. He can harras Niall into letting him see the man, he can ignore Niall entirely and see the man anyway, he can compel Niall into letting him see the man — but is any of it worth it? He doesn’t like compelling people, doesn’t like the cheap feeling that chases him afterwards more often than not, and it isn’t a thought he gets very often, especially when it comes to Niall. So, he says, “Fine,” and falls back on the bed, blindingly reaching to clutch a pillow to his chest. “Tell me about the note. What did it say?”

“I don’t think so,” Niall counters, and before Harry can get a word out, he continues, “You’ve berated me long enough. Tell me about Tomlinson first and I’ll tell you about the note. And finish your damn fruit.” 

_Tomlinson._ “You want to hear about Tomlinson.” It’s meant to be a question, but doesn’t really sound like one. What could Harry possibly tell him about Louis? Harry can’t see him, but he knows Niall has his eyebrows raised, hands on his hips. “Let me take a shot in the dark. You want to know if I apologized for compelling him in front of everyone.” 

And then it happens slowly and all at once. It’s like watching himself and Niall from somewhere far away where everything moves in slow motion, and there’s a sinking feeling in Harry’s chest that makes it hard to breathe, makes it feel like he’s stuck underwater with his lungs full and he can’t _breathe_ he can’t get air inside of him and then Niall is turning and looking at Harry with his eyebrows pulled together, a frown tugging his mouth downwards, his hand shoved in a pocket, and he says to Harry, “Why would he know you compelled him?” 

And it’s like having the breath knocked out of Harry but he’s still underwater, still unable to breathe. 

_Why does Louis know he was compelled? Why does he know he was compelled twice?_

“Harry,” he thinks Niall is saying, but it’s a little difficult to hear him. There isn’t enough air in the room for Harry to breathe. “Harry.” Niall is standing in front of him, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry looks up at him with blurred vision. “Breathe,” Niall says, and Harry can’t. He cannot breathe. He can feel his chest heaving, can feel his heart hitting against his ribcage harder and faster than it should, but he can’t breathe. 

_How does Louis know how does Louis know how does Louis know how does Louis know how does —_

“What happened?” 

“How does Louis know?” He doesn't sound like himself. Harry doesn’t sound like himself, he sounds scared and panicked and out of breath and — 

“What happened, Harry? Focus.” Niall sounds like Niall. He sounds like the Captain of the royal guard. He sounds like he is control of everything. 

“Louis knows,” Harry tries to say without letting his words tremble, “He knows he was compelled twice, Niall, he shouldn’t know. He shouldn’t —”

“It’s okay, Harry, you’re okay.” Niall moves around to the bedside table and comes back with a glass of water. He holds it up to Harry’s mouth, says a commanding _“Drink,”_ and doesn’t really give Harry a choice. He tilts the glass back and Harry sips the cool water, closes his eyes for a moment and focuses on the way it travels down his throat. Then Niall says, “Tell me what he said.”

Harry keeps his eyes closed and tries to breathe again. It’s like the air gets stuck and can’t get past his throat. “He told me he remembers,” Harry tells Niall. He remembers the way Louis’ eyes flashed, the cold and sharp words he threw at Harry. “He remembers I compelled him about the note. And before that, too.”

“Before that?” 

Harry opens his eyes, finds Niall’s confused, blue ones. He doesn’t know. “That first day,” Harry starts, swallowing around the rock forming in his throat, “he was in so much pain, Ni. I just wanted to help him.”

But that isn’t how Louis remembers it. _“It isn’t up to you to determine whose pain who can take away on a whim,”_ is what Louis said to him. Louis thinks he was playing God. Harry feels sick to his stomach. 

“Did you ask him how he knows?” 

“No. No, I just —” Harry didn’t ask Louis anything. It didn’t even occur to him at the time that Louis shouldn’t know about Harry’s ability to compel people or that Harry had used it on Louis. Twice. “I need to talk to him.” 

“What you need is to calm down.” Harry knows Niall doesn’t intend it, but his words comes out condescending and it tugs irritatingly at the edges of Harry’s mind. He _needs_ to talk to Louis, he needs to find out how in hell Louis knows about the compelling. People don’t just know. That’s one reason Harry tends to not use it when surrounded by others. 

“Who is he, Niall?” Harry doesn’t like the way he sounds, doesn’t like the pleading, desperate tone his voice has taken. He is the crown prince, he shouldn’t sound this way because of a measly guard. “Who the hell is he that he was able to survive being kidnapped, made his way back to the palace in the dead of the night, lived through excruciating pain, is the son of the man who left the note, and now — now he knows that I compelled him. Who _is_ he?”

Niall sits beside Harry and stares at his hands. “His name is Louis William Tomlinson. He has five sisters, all of them younger than him. His mother died two years ago and he has been the sole guardian of his sisters since then. He had no knowledge of the whereabouts of his father when he started working for the palace. I couldn’t find anything substantial about his father. As far as Tomlinson was concerned prior to this week, his father has been dead for years. I’ve known the man for four years, Harry. I knew him before I was Captain, I worked alongside him. He is a good man. I can’t explain what’s happening, but he has been a _good_ man during the time I’ve known him.” 

_Five sisters._ Harry only met two of them earlier. _His mother died two years ago._ Louis never asked to see his family. Ever since he woke, he has only asked for his sisters. He didn’t mention parents, didn’t mention a mother or father. He only wanted to see his sisters. Sick. Harry feels sick. Louis may have been a good man during all the time Niall has known him, but now he’s becoming a threat. He is Harry’s soulmates who is implicated in Gemma’s kidnapping and now happens to know that Harry can and has compelled him more than once. It doesn’t make sense, none of it makes sense. 

Harry stands up from the bed. “I’m going to speak to him.”

“No.” Niall is on his feet before Harry has taken a single step. “You’re scared and emotional and confused. And you need to calm down before you talk to him again.”

“Believe me, Niall, I’m not going to calm down until I’ve talked to him.” 

Niall eyes him for a long, pensive moment, almost looking right through Harry before he speaks up again. “Fine,” he says, and the sigh that is hidden behind that one word doesn’t go unnoticed by Harry. “But remember that he is also scared. I’m on your side, H, I promise, but I know him. Things don’t seem to be working in his favor, but I know him, and I know he is scared. Just remember that.” 

Louis is scared. And that is somehow of actual concern to Niall. 

_Breathe. Just breathe._

Louis can wait a little while. He isn’t going anywhere. He can wait. 

“Back to you.” Harry sits down on the bed again. “Tell me more.” Prim, who has been curled on one of the pillows, crawls into Harry’s lap and it makes him smile, just a little. 

“What more do you want to know?” 

Such a loaded question that is. What more does Harry want to know? So much, he wants to say, that he isn’t even sure where to begin. There is so much he doesn’t know. He settles on the most glaring. 

“Is there any word on Liam?” He doesn’t ask about Gemma because he knows Niall would have said something already if he knew, but Liam is different. Harry isn’t sure who is looking for Liam and what measures are being taken. Last he heard, Niall didn’t know anything about the prince’s whereabouts. 

And right now Niall is shaking his head. He’s unbuttoning crimson his coat, leaving him in a white shirt, and he says, “They’re keeping everything very hush hush and I don’t like it.” And it’s the way he says it, really, with his eyes far away and his wariness etched all over his face. It’s not that Niall doesn’t _like_ it — it’s that Niall doesn’t trust the people of Novac, and, consequently, neither does Harry. “I talked to their Captain — Mali, you remember? — I talked to him today before I came here. He said they may be close to a lead, but wouldn’t budge when I asked him for details. Said he wants to wait until he’s absolutely sure.” 

Niall lays out his coat on the edge of the bed near Harry, pets Primrose distractedly, and falls backwards onto the mattress. 

“I don’t trust them,” he sighs, and there it is. He said it before, too, and Harry knows better than to question Niall’s instincts. “I don’t know why yet, but I’ll find out.” 

“I know,” Harry says, more to himself than to Niall and keeps running his fingers through Prim’s soft fur. He knows Niall will sort this mess out and make everything right again. It’s what Niall does. It’s why everyone trusts him, why everyone has faith in him. 

It’s quiet then: Harry sitting cross-legged on his bed, his dog content in his lap, his best friend laying on his bed with closed eyes. Still, though, there’s a frown tugging at his lips, and Harry watches it relax. He wonders how exhausted Niall really is and when he last got a decent night of sleep. He doesn’t _look_ tired, he looks like how Niall always looks — focused and ready to work. There hasn’t been fatigue dragging his body down. Since this morning, Niall has been nothing but determined. But in this moment, just in this quiet moment when all Harry feels is the softness of his dog under his hand, he wonders if his friend is exhausted. 

“Harry?” Niall’s voice comes and it’s quiet, too. It’s unguarded. Harry hums in response. “Let me sleep for just ten minutes,” Niall says without once opening his eyes, so Harry lets him.

▴▴▴

Louis is missing. 

Harry is standing inside the room that Louis is meant to be in at the moment, but said room is empty, with no signs of Louis having been here. The bed is perfectly made, there are no clothes left anywhere, no belongings on the bedside table, even the fireplace isn’t burning and there are no guards standing outside the door. It’s like Louis was never here. 

A cold, sinking feeling sweeps down Harry’s spine and he leaves the room with a shudder. 

“Caspian, could you please go and find out where Louis Tomlinson has gone to?” The guard, Caspian, looks from Harry to the closed door of Louis’ room and then back again. There’s something in his eyes, something about the tension in his shoulders that tells Harry he’s going to protest, so Harry says, “I’ll be with Darling, I won’t go anywhere else. You find Louis Tomlinson for me and then come find me.”

Harry managed to evade the host of guards Niall has assigned to him in the wake of everything that has happened. It just feels... strange — walking around his own home being followed by a slew of guards, his every move being tracked like a hawk. So he managed to get away from most of them and allowed one to stay with him. And that is probably why Caspian looks so hesitant to walk away from him right now. It isn’t an easy thing to defy commands from Captain Horan and Harry is asking Caspian to do just that. But Harry outranks Niall and there is no immediate danger to be concerned about. And besides, there are guards stationed at every corner. Harry doesn’t _need_ security following him everywhere. 

“Go, Caspian,” Harry says with a smile that he’s sure doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll just be out in the stables and you know someone else will be there. I won’t be alone. Now, go.” 

Caspian sighs. But he murmurs a “Yes, sir,” and walks away from Harry. 

Instead of going directly to Darling, Harry makes a detour and starts walking in the direction of his mother’s rooms. He hasn’t seen her all day and now Louis isn’t where he should be, so it’s making Harry feel on edge again. There is no plausible reason for him to not be in his room. He is not allowed to step foot off the palace property, so Harry can’t think of a single place he could be at if not in his room. He walks down the carpeted halls of the palace, nodding at guards standing watch at various points, and comes to a stop outside his mother’s chambers. There’s a guard at the door, of course. He is the one who was with Niall when they took Louis to be questioned — Zayn Malik, one of the men permanently assigned to the queen’s service. Harry still doesn’t know why he was with Niall that day and not with his mother. He makes a mental note to ask Niall. 

“Your Highness,” Zayn nods when Harry stops in front of him. He doesn’t move to open the door for Harry, which is odd. “Her Majesty is not inside,” he continues, and then doesn’t elaborate any further. 

“Where is she?” Harry asks. 

Malik looks down at the floor when he answers Harry and says, “She left about an hour ago and went to Her Majesty Queen Giovanna’s chambers to speak with the king and queen.” 

_Queen Giovanna._ Harry still isn’t entirely comfortable with that woman or her family. It’s mostly unfounded, except that now Niall keeps saying they shouldn’t trust the other Captain, so, really, it’s not all that arbitrary. Harry doesn’t like it. But he trusts Gemma. She trusts Liam enough to marry him, so that has to count for something. It has to. 

Harry turns away from his mother’s room without entering it and heads for the guest rooms. Why aren’t they having tea in one of the public rooms? What could they possibly be discussing that can’t be done in the presence of others? They aren’t there, though, when he gets to Queen Giovanna’s chambers. The room is closed shut and the guard standing by informs Harry that his mother went to the council room half an hour ago. Harry doesn’t recognize this man, presumably because he is dressed in the typical Novac blue, but he doesn’t miss the way the guard looks Harry in the eye. There’s something there, like defiance, maybe, or contempt — a sort of cold animosity that Harry is sure in entirely unwarranted. Irritated, Harry turns his back to the man and walks away without another word. 

The council room is a long walk from here and Harry finally, _finally_ doesn’t have someone trailing after him with a crossbow poised to attack. He tries to push Louis somewhere to the back of his mind where the name can stay in darkness, can become shrouded in it and maybe become a distant, hazy memory that never quite resurfaces. It would be nice. But all that Harry can think about is the fact that Louis is missing, that Louis knows he was compelled, that Louis may be the key to finding Harry’s sister. 

All he can think about is Louis. 

As though on cue, there’s a phantom jolt of pain striking his ankle like a lightning rod. 

It’s only momentary, the debilitating pain is only momentary, but there’s a sting that follows, a sting that burns within his ankles and it’s a lot like the jabs he feels in his wrist from time to time. 

And it’s this realization that finally knocks the air out of Harry’s lungs and he staggers against the wall with a hand clutching his chest. 

In all the time he has spent losing his mind over feeling the pain of Louis’ injuries, Harry never once considered the flip side of the situation: Louis feels his pain. Every time Harry gets his wrist hurt, every time he gets a cut or a bruise while training with Niall, every time he trips and falls, every time he gets scratches on his arms from Prim — Louis feels all of it. He has felt every single one of Harry’s injuries and he doesn’t even know. He doesn’t know because Harry hasn’t told him. 

He doesn’t know that Harry is his soulmate. 

It makes Harry feel sick. 

He all but runs to the council room. The door is closed and there are not one, but two guards stationed outside. Only one of them bows his head in greeting. Harry doesn’t care enough just in this moment to question why that is. 

“I need to see my mother,” he says impatiently when neither one of them makes a move to open the door. It should go unsaid that he needs to see his mother. Still, neither man moves and on any other day Harry might have tempted to ask why, but right now, he doesn’t really care about it all that much. Suppressing the eyeroll that he feels coming, Harry pushes the door open himself, expecting to find the room at least half full. Instead, what he sees is his mother and Niall talking quietly to each other with no one else present. When Harry left his own room, Niall was still asleep in his bed. How he managed to get here before Harry and how he seems more awake than Harry is something to be pondered later. 

“Mum,” Harry calls. She looks over Niall’s shoulder and her eyes fall on Harry and it’s strange — she looks worried. His mother actually looks worried in a way she hasn’t since all this started. 

Harry’s stomach twists. Niall never told him what he found in the cabin, what Gemma’s captors left to be found there. 

“What is it?” he asks when he gets closer to the pair. 

In the silence that follows, Harry spares a moment to take in the grey dress his mother is wearing. She looks every bit the queen that everyone knows and adores. There’s concern in her eyes and it’s palpable, but everything else about her — she’s majestic. It isn’t a dress she would wear if she had visitors present; it’s simple and quaint, with golden and turquoise embroidery on silky, dark grey fabric. It’s the sort of dress she would wear to have breakfast or drink tea with Gemma. The usual crown on her head is replaced by a golden diadem. Harry wonders why. 

The quiet moment is shattered by Niall saying the word, “Ransom.” 

Harry has to ask him to repeat it. 

“They’re holding her as ransom,” Niall clarifies, voice as grave as Harry has ever heard it. “They want a large sum of money. They want the crown. They want us to surrender everything in exchange for Gemma’s life.”

And it takes a painfully long moment for those words to register with Harry. He knows what ransom means. He knows what surrender means. He knows what all of those words mean individually, but it takes a very long and painfully slow moment for them to fit together next to each other, in the order that Niall has just uttered them. But they still don’t make sense. _Holding Gemma’s life as ransom in exchange for the crown._ That isn’t an easy demand to make. Whoever is behind this has some nerve. Whoever is behind this isn’t afraid of the kingdom of Delea and its queen.

“They are going to have to kill me to get to my crown.” The words come from Harry’s mother and she sounds... unafraid. Her voice is unwavering, her stance is unflinching, and it’s only in her eyes that Harry is able to spot the flickers worry that blink in and out. 

“We aren’t going to do anything?” Harry asks, making no effort to mask the confusion in his voice. Surely they aren’t going to just sit and twiddle their thumbs, waiting for the next threat and demand from Gemma’s captors. Surely his mother plans on doing more than just waiting for whatever happens next, which is why his confusion turns to incredulity when she shakes her head. 

“Son, when have you known your mother to bow down?” 

Never, is when. Harry isn’t one to drop to his knees in submission for just anyone, either, but there are stars and mountains inked into one of his knees, forests and oceans on the other — a representation of his home, his kingdom. Of the only thing he’s willing to grovel for. Gemma is part of that. She’s more than that. But Harry isn’t the one making decisions here. 

“So how long are you willing to wait and do nothing?” 

“Until I know who we’re dealing with.” That’s an answer Harry doesn’t like and he knows his mother know that, as well, because she doesn’t stop long enough for him to say anything. She continues with, “You should go and start getting ready for tonight. Perhaps take a long bath. I know I need one.” 

“What’s tonight?” As far as he knows, nothing was scheduled for tonight. Not without Gemma, anyway. 

“A ball, dear,” his mother says. If there’s a smile tugging at her mouth, albeit wary, Harry can’t really be sure. _A ball._ They’re throwing a ball. Celebrating what, exactly? He looks at Niall, who’s gazing somewhere far away and not facing Harry. It’s his mother who answers his unvoiced thoughts. “We have to keep up the morale, darling. People have to see that we are okay. Don’t cower in defeat when you haven’t been defeated.” 

He wants to ask when this was planned, when they had the time to make preparations for an event of this magnitude, wants to know what Niall thinks of the idea, but he bites back on the words threatening to tumble out of him. It’s the thought of a royal event that reminds Harry what brought him here in the first place. The sickening feeling in his gut returns. 

“Did you know that Louis Tomlinson is missing from his room?” 

Harry’s mother blinks slowly, but Niall seems unfazed. “He must be in the stables,” Niall says casually. 

Harry feels his brows furrow. “Why would he be in the stables? 

“He’s not to set foot off the palace property,” Niall answers and begins walking away. “He can still walk outside from time to time.” 

There’s too much that Harry doesn’t understand and too much that he doesn’t like — and everything that has to do with Louis Tomlinson is near the top of the list. Harry needs to know how Louis knew about being compelled. He needs answers and he can only get them from Louis, which is something that makes Harry’s head spin. He shouldn’t feel helpless in front of Louis Tomlinson. He shouldn’t feel the need to beg and grovel for an explanation from a measly guard. He should not have to feel dependent on Louis Tomlinson. 

He is _not_ dependent on Louis Tomlinson. 

▴

When Harry gets to the stables, Louis isn’t there. Harry’s blood simmers. 

▴▴▴

The gathering for the ball is... extensive. It’s not that Harry is surprised by how quickly and how marvelously everything was done — after all, it is a ball requested by the queen herself. It’s just that Harry’s feeling more than a little on edge. The last time an event of this scale was held at the palace, Gemma disappeared seemingly without a trace. Something in Harry feels unsettled at the thought of so many people milling about the palace. He knows that Niall will take every safety precaution necessary, especially after last time, and he doesn’t need to worry so much, but the antsy feeling in his gut is difficult to ignore. Something unpleasant and unwanted keeps bubbling in his chest, which isn’t really the best when he’s meant to be enjoying the night and entertaining guests. 

_They can entertain me,_ he supposes. 

Since Louis seems to be a ghost in the wind, Harry needs to distract himself. He can give himself a break from Louis Tomlinson for one night. Pressing answers can wait until tomorrow morning. 

The ballroom looks stunning. Harry’s not sure if tonight was an impulse decision made by his mother or if it was something that had been agreed upon earlier, but the room looks absolutely otherworldly. The golden light in the room only shimmers brighter against the maroon velvet curtains and polished gold floor, glinting like diamonds when it hits the gems woven into certain parts of the curtains. There are tables set along the edges, lining the walls intricately and leaving open space for people to dance in the middle. There are a number of people swaying in each other’s arms and Harry wishes for a moment that he were at the piano instead of the woman rhythmically moving her fingers across the keys. He’s not here to play the piano, though. He hasn’t seen Niall in a long while and he managed to only have one guard shadow him for the night, which are both good things. If he hasn’t seen Niall, that means things are going smoothly. Nothing bad has happened and everything is under control. The less he sees of Niall tonight, the better. 

And he would forget all about Louis, too, at least for tonight, if it weren’t for the phantom spikes of pain he keeps feeling. He’s not sure where Louis is, exactly, or what he’s doing, but he wishes there was a way to numb this connection between them. 

_Tomorrow. Think about that tomorrow._

There are a lot of people here — women in lavish gowns, some in simple, modest dresses that make it clear they aren’t of royal descent, men in dull, stuffy suits that make Harry want to gag. Sure, it’s winter, but there are better choices to be made than the absolutely heinous clothes that some men are wearing. Why would one choose to wear plain black to a royal ball, with no accents to capture anyone’s attention? It makes them look boring and out of place, which they most certainly are if they can’t use some imagination to stand out at least a bit. Or the gentleman wearing a brown and grey ensemble with a balck tophat — what could he possibly have been thinking? There is nothing in the world that could salvage that outfit. It’s the lace and sheer fabrics donned by the women — and on Harry’s own body — that make the room more pleasant to look at. Life without a little flair and extravagance is a life wasted. Niall might disagree, but then again, he’s Niall. At times, he exists just to spite Harry.

Harry has been floating from one end of the room to the other, back and forth, scoping out the area to walk away with someone on his arm, but he hasn’t yet found anyone interesting enough to catch his eye. There’s a lady, most definitely a countess or a lady or someone else of a degree of importance, but Harry isn’t familiar with her. Perhaps that can change. She hasn’t really mingled with anyone just yet, hasn’t really latched herself onto any one person. In fact, during the time Harry has been eyeing her, she has mostly kept to herself. She seems most comfortable talking to guests from Novac, so if Harry had to hazard a guess, he’d say she’s an outsider here. It shouldn’t take much to draw her away from the crowd and into a guest room. Harry’s quite charming even without his compulsion at work. 

So it’s more than a little odd for her to turn her back to Harry the minute he starts walking towards her. That shouldn’t be the case. 

“Caspian,” Harry addresses the guard standing nearby. “Would you mind hanging back for a while? I’d very much appreciate it.”

Then trying his best not to frown, Harry keeps heading her way. Her gown is all rosey lace and sheer fabric, white flowers sewn into the small train that follows her. The fabric only covers the lower half of her back and there’s a shapeless mark the color of dusty roses spreading like a butterfly along her spine that wouldn’t be visible if she had let her hair down. Harry wonders why she hasn’t tried to hide it, wonders if she chose the gown because it matches the blemish. 

“Hello,” he says in greeting when he’s close enough for her to hear. She turns to look at him, smiles politely in a way that isn’t quite genuine. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m Harry.” 

“Your Highness,” she returns. Her voice is... strangely familiar. Harry is certain they’ve never met before tonight, so there is no way he could know her, but something about her brown eyes is inexplicably, hauntingly familiar. “My name is Merida,” she says and even the way she speaks reminds Harry of something else, but he can’t put his finger on it. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Harry smiles back at her, wide enough to feel the dimple indenting his cheek. “Shall I call you Lady Merida?” 

“Oh, I’m no Lady, Your Highness,” she says with a brief smile. “You may call me Mery, though only Liam does that.” 

_Liam._ Harry waits a moment to see if she will correct herself, if she will tag on a title, but she doesn’t. She just called him _Liam,_ as though she and the crown prince of Novac are on a first name basis like he and Niall are. 

“Liam?” he asks, because it’s curious. Why would this woman refer to him by his first name only if there isn’t more to their relationship? 

Merida looks somewhere past Harry and then takes his hand. 

Harry blinks. 

She smiles. 

Harry allows her to take the lead, unsure of what’s on her mind but intrigued enough to follow her out of the buzzing ballroom and out into the hallway. Still, she doesn’t stop. She keeps a hold on his hand and he follows her down the long hall, turns the corner as they head towards the guest wing of the palace. Harry doesn’t say a word and neither does Merida and he wonders bizarrely if it’s his turn to disappear tonight. That can’t happen, though, because the halls are lined with more guards than Harry has ever seen inside the palace ever before and he just knows that’s all on Niall. He’ll have to ask Niall later how long this event had been marked on the calendar for. 

“Lady Merida,” he starts when she stops outside of a room and pushes open the door, paying no mind to the man standing guard mere feet away from them, his hand suspiciously close to his crossbow. 

“I told you, Your Highness, I’m not a Lady.” She steps inside the room, pulling Harry along with her, smiles in a way that sparks a flicker of recognition inside Harry. It vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. She closes the door, slides the latch so it’s locked, and leans against it. As her eyes close, Harry watches as that smile fades slowly, leaving her looking somber, maybe a little defeated. “My name is Merida,” she repeats her earlier words, pauses, takes a faltering breath, opens her eyes and — “And I am the Princess of Novac, Liam’s older sister.” 

_Princess of Novac. Liam’s older sister._

Those are not words anyone should be saying. Novac doesn’t have a princess. Liam is an only child. For as long as Harry has known about the kingdom of Novac, he has never heard anything about a princess. Liam has never mentioned anything about a sister. Surely, this cannot be true. Why would King Francis and Queen Giovanna hide the existence of another child — of their firstborn? But there’s something about this lady, the way her eyes remain soft when she speaks, the way her words mimic Liam’s tone, even the mark on her back is similar in color to the small one on Liam’s throat. 

“Why should I believe you?” is the only thing Harry can say back to her. 

It just simply doesn’t add up. Nothing she has said makes any sense given what Harry knows about the Novac’s royal family. 

“Because your friend — Niall, I believe? — He believed me. I would hope the Captain of your guard has trustworthy instincts.” 

“What did you tell him?” There is no way, absolutely no way in hell Niall would believe her if she didn’t have strong evidence to convince him. And when did he even have the time to talk to her? None of the pieces fit in Harry’s mind and he would really like a glass of whiskey right about now. And he would also like it if Louis would take a break from whatever it is that’s causing his back to sting so terribly. 

“I told him exactly what I just told you,” Merida answers. She steps away from the door and moves to the bed, bending ever so gracefully to slide off the high heels from her feet. “I also told him where to find your own princess.” 

Those words make Harry nauseous. He needs to sit down because there’s a sudden tremor in his legs that has nothing to do with Louis’ pain and a hammering in his chest that makes his palms clammy. He takes a seat at the edge of the bed, takes a few breaths in an attempt to steady his heartbeat. “What do you know about Gemma?” he asks her. He wants to go and find Niall, wants answers from someone he knows he can trust, but he can’t quite move. He just needs to breathe. 

“I know she’s a lovely person,” Merida says. She looks at Harry with those kind brown eyes that look so much like Liam’s and Harry feels like he’s losing his mind. He must be. “I’m not a liar, Harry, and I would never do anything to harm your family. I know what a broken family is like.” She keeps looking at Harry, but her eyes start to go a little vacant the more she talks. “You may not believe me right now, but you will when your sister comes back. I told Niall she’s being held at the palace in Novac and he is going to send your best men to retrieve her. They’ll be back soon enough.”

 _Niall knows where Gemma is._ He knows where she is and he didn’t say a word to Harry. Is that why he allowed this ball to happen tonight? To keep people engaged and distracted? Harry gets up from the bed, wants to walk outside and find Niall, but Merida grabs his wrist before he can take a step. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” she says. 

“Why the hell not?” 

“Because you don’t want to lose the element of surprise.” She lets out a small chuckle then. “Niall was right about you.” 

Harry feels his eyes narrow. “Right about what?”

“About you being rash and emotional and impulsive.”

Harry rolls his eyes. Really, he shouldn’t be surprised if it came from Niall, but he still doesn’t know if this woman can be trusted. Her timing seems to be awfully convenient given that Liam doesn’t have a sister and isn’t available to set the record right. But if she _is_ telling the truth and Gemma is back by tomorrow morning... then why would she tell Niall what she knows? Why would she sell out her own family? 

“You’re wondering if you should trust me and how I could possibly be related to Liam when you’ve never heard of me before,” Merida’s voice startles Harry out of his thoughts. She pats the space next to her. “Have a seat, prince. I’ve got time to tell you.” 

Harry hesitates. She can’t stop him from leaving if he really wants to, but he hesitates. It’s likely he won’t find Niall easily if her words are true and the only other person who can answer his questions is sitting right in front of him. If her family took Gemma — which really makes _no_ sense at all — it would clear some of the suspicion looming over Louis. It doesn’t explain anything, but it does away just a bit of suspicion. 

Harry sits back down. “Tell me.” He wishes he had Primrose with him. 

“My name is Merida,” she tells Harry for the third time tonight. She must know this because she smiles with a glint in her eyes. “It’s just amusing to work you up,” she says. Harry tries not to roll his eyes this time. “I am King Francis and Queen Giovanna’s firstborn,” Merida says like it’s the simplest thing in the world and Harry’s world feels like it’s about to tip over. “You’re looking rather pale, Your Highness, would you like something to drink?” 

“I _am_ pale,” Harry snaps at her, unable to wrap his mind around the words still lingering in the air. King _Francis and Queen Giovanna’s firstborn._ That’s impossible. Liam is their only child. “Keep talking.” 

“Ever so polite,” she tsks with a shake of her head. Harry knows he’s going to lose his patience with her very soon. “I was born thirty-one years ago. Tell me, Prince Harry, did you ever hear the tales of Novac’s lost baby?” 

_No,_ he shakes his head. He didn’t, not really. There are hazy memories, dusty images and hushed whispers flashing through Harry’s mind, of people discussing it once upon a time: King Francis and Queen Giovanna losing their baby days after she was born. Some said it was scarlet fever, some said she choked on something, some said it happened while the baby was asleep. No one knows, really, and Harry hasn’t thought about it in years. He never had reason to think about it. 

“The baby didn’t die,” Merida says, “I’m sure they would’ve preferred that, but the baby didn’t die. The baby was me.” She isn’t looking at Harry anymore and he’s not sure he wants her to. “My father dearest wanted a son, an heir to his throne. Mother wouldn’t let him kill me, or so I’ve heard.” Harry’s head is spinning. “There was a cousin of Giovanna — an orphan — who lived in the palace with her. I became her bastard child. I grew up under the same roof as my biological parents, calling them Uncle Fran and Auntie Vanna. I grew up thinking my little brother is my cousin. My mother, the woman who raised me as her own, her name was Agnes. She died four months ago.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what he _should_ say. He can’t imagine being abandoned by his mother, can’t imagine his mother giving Gemma to someone else and pronouncing her dead to the world just because she was born a girl. There’s something downright reprehensible about the notion and it makes Harry want to hit something just so he can displace the anger brewing inside. What kind of heartless monster does that to their own flesh and blood? 

“I’m sorry,” he tells Merida, because he truly is. It’s an inadequate and understated response, but it’s all he’s got at the moment. But it still doesn’t fully explain why she would tell Harry any of this — or Niall. He asks her exactly that. 

“Because I care for Liam,” she responds easily, like it’s the easiest and most simplest thing in the world. “I don’t care for my parents,” she clarifies, no doubt at the look of utter confusion on Harry’s face. “Once Gemma comes back, you can do with them as you please.” 

“But why? I don’t understand.”

“Think, Harry,” she urges, moving just a little closer to him, eyes just a little wider. “Liam cares for your sister. His parents don’t. Why would they so keen on making this wedding happen, only to kidnap the bride and bargain with her life? What could they want?” 

Harry doesn’t know. All he knows is that he never really trusted Queen Giovanna, never felt fully comfortable under her watchful eye. He remembers her reaction to the news of Liam and Gemma’s disappearance — she hadn’t been moved to tears. She hadn’t seem all that concerned. In fact, he remembers Niall saying that the King and Queen wanted to search for Liam on their own, keep their men focused without anyone else’s interference. And if this is true, if they really are the ones to have orchestrated the kidnapping, then it wouldn’t have been the most difficult thing in the world. After all, they had full access to the palace. Their men were on duty all around the palace. Only Delea’s men had been injured that night and Louis had to bear the brunt of it. 

“What do they want?”

Merida huffs impatiently. “Your friend is much faster, Prince. He caught on in a minute.” 

“Just tell me, Princess.” 

Her eyes tighten. “Don’t call me that.” All levity is gone from her tone and Harry only feels slightly guilty. “They want to be richer. They may be monarchs, but your kingdom is much wealthier than theirs, and the pair of them have always been greedy. They chose a son over a daughter and they will choose wealth over that son’s happiness. But I won’t let them ruin Liam’s marriage.”

Harry remembers the note — the note that demanded a hefty sum of money, that demanded Delea to give up its crown. He remembers thinking that whoever is calling the shots behind this operation is incredibly confident and now it’s all fitting together. 

“How do I know Liam isn’t part of this?” 

“Because you know Liam. He didn’t disappear for convenience. They took him because it had to look authentic and he never would have agreed to any of this, not a single aspect of this ugliness. He loves your sister the way she deserves to be loved and I would hate for his relationship to become collateral damage in the way of someone else’s greed.” 

“And you?” Harry questions, because he knows there’s more. There has to be more. But Merida simply cocks her head to the side and furrows her eyebrows. “What do you want out of all of this?” Harry elaborates. “What do you expect to get by telling me all this?” 

“Oh,” she blinks after a split second of quiet. Then she laughs lightly, the skin around her eyes crinkling in a way that reminds Harry of Liam’s laughing face. “I don’t want anything, Prince. I don’t want royal recognition or privileges or burdens. I’ve lived three decades as just Merida and I won’t be changing that. This is all for Liam.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” 

“You don’t.” Merida reaches out and puts a hand on Harry’s knee, squeezing once in a way that’s strangely comforting. “I can’t imagine what it must be like not knowing where your sister is or if she’s well, but I can sympathize, Your Highness. It wasn’t so long ago that I learned Liam is my brother, but the idea of him being held captive — even if it’s by his own parents — doesn’t exactly put me at ease. You can have faith in me, that I’m telling you the truth and help your friend decide what to do next. Or you can wait until Gemma comes back and tells everyone where she has been, which will match what I’ve told you. The downside will be Francis and Giovanna discrediting her — because why would they want to harm their only son and his bride? They’ll pin everything on Gemma and your family. They’ll say you orchestrated this. It’s your choice to make.”

Harry lets the words settle around them. He’s still not sure, still not convinced by her story even if some of it fits together like matching puzzle pieces. Harry may not have the best instincts in the world, but he knows better than to trust someone he met not even an hour ago. “How do you know all this?” he asks her. “How do I know you aren’t playing me like a fiddle?” 

Merida shrugs, looking entirely unbothered given the gravity of the situation. “Like I said, you don’t know. You’ll have to take a leap of faith.” When Harry says nothing, she sighs. “Look, here’s the thing. Francis and Giovana aren’t aware that I know about my parentage. They think Agnes took that with her to the grave. They wouldn’t even know I’m here, had I not taken the chance to speak to auntie dearest early this morning.” At that, Harry can’t help but raise his eyebrows. Why wouldn’t they know? “I didn’t want to be at this wedding as the orphan cousin, so I pretended to be ill. I raised my temperature — oh, don’t look so doubtful, Prince, it isn’t so hard to do if you’ve got access to boiling hot water and some washcloths. I told Liam I would come to Delea before the wedding if I felt better, but it was really only to placate Liam. It worked.” Merida gets up from the bed and paces in front of Harry in short, slow steps. “I wasn’t going to come at all, I swear. But then I saw them bring Liam and Gemma to the palace — I was leaving, on my way to visit a friend — and I changed my mind.” 

“Was Gemma alright?” he can’t his curiosity. It’s eating at him. 

“I hope so,” Merida says and she sounds sincere. Harry wants to believe her. “She was asleep, or drugged, and I didn’t see her for long. It was just a long enough glance for me to know it was her and Liam, so I decided to come here. I was obviously feeling better, so I had one guard accompany me. He brought me to Her Majesty this morning and she expressed to me her deepest concerns about Liam and Gemma. Given that I’d just seen Liam and Gemma at _her_ palace, I saw through the farce.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. The agitation he feels is enough to make him want to pull at it, but he resists and bites down on his lip instead. That’s a habit that won’t go away. “So, let me see if I’ve got the story right.” He makes a fist with his right hand and lifts his thumb. “You stayed in Novac to avoid the wedding of your cousin-turned-brother because of understandable pride issues.” He lifts his index finger. “You saw my sister brought into your palace when she should have been getting married in Delea and you decided to come here.” Another finger lifted. “You came to Delea — raised no suspicion in doing so, might I add, which is very impressive.” That earns him an exaggerated bow. “So you came to Delea, spoke to your aunt-turned-mother, and decided she had staged the kidnapping of her son and almost daughter-in-law.” He lifts his ring finger. “You found the time to do all that _and_ speak to Niall to fill him in on your discoveries _and_ managed to convince him that you’re telling the truth.” Harry looks at his raised hand, at the only finger left, and uncurls it just for the hell of it. “And now you’re here telling me everything because apparently I’m always the last person to know everything.” 

Merida smiles and this time it reaches her eyes. “Your Captain doesn’t know so many details, but I told him enough that he just simply couldn’t disregard me. He’s a smart man.” 

“Yes, he is.”

There’s quiet in the room then. It’s not silent, though; there are muted sounds filtering in through the door — happy, joyous sounds from people trying to keep their spirits lifted. Merida has her back to Harry and he can see the mark again, stretching along her spine in a way that makes it look like it’s an embellishment that comes with the gown. Again, Harry wonders why she didn’t try to hide it and he opens his mouth to ask her that, but something else strikes him. 

“Why would Francis and Giovanna kidnap Gemma and then hold her hostage at their palace?” he muses out loud, because, really, why would they? “If someone suspected them, that would be the first place to check.” 

Merida turns to face him and taps her temple twice with a smile that looks appreciative or impressed, but he doesn’t think it is. “I was wondering when you’d pick up on that detail. Your Captain asked me that much faster.” She comes back to the bed. “They’re _at_ the palace, but not really _in_ the palace. There’s a small cottage near the palace. It’s technically on palace property, but not exactly part of it and is typically inhabited by one of the guards, but I suppose an arrangement had to be made. She’s a princess, after all, who will soon be queen. Despite whatever threats I am sure they’ve sent your way, they wouldn’t hurt her. She’s too valuable.”

“You seem to know a lot for someone who only learned of all this a day ago.”

“I’m an intelligent woman.”

She picks up a shoe and slips it on, beginning to tie its intricate laces around her ankle. After a moment’s thought, Harry gets off the bed and crouches in front of her, taking the shoe from her and tying it for her. If she has a reaction to it besides unsure, hovering hands, Harry doesn’t know. “Does Liam know about this? About you and him?” he asks quietly, though he isn’t sure it’s his place to do so. He doesn’t know her at all, really, and what she does and doesn’t share with Liam doesn’t concern him. 

“No,” Merida says. 

He picks up the other shoe. “Shouldn’t he?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s his life, as well. It’s his right to know he has an older sister.” As he says the words, his mind travels to Louis, who doesn’t know he has a soulmate. No. He must. He just doesn’t know Harry is his soulmate. Harry isn’t entirely sure if that’s better or worse. 

_Worse,_ a small voice whispers in his head. _It’s worse._ He remembers what it was like to know his soulmate was out there in the world, but not knowing who it was. It was torture. 

_Hypocrite,_ says the same voice again, _you’re putting him through your own hell._ Harry tunes it out. Louis Tomlinson can wait a little longer. He seems to be evading Harry, anyway, so what’s the harm in pushing all thoughts of him to the side for now? 

“I am not the Princess of Novac.” Merida’s voice brings Harry away from scarred soulmates and phantom pains. “I may have been Francis and Giovanna’s firstborn, but they clearly never wanted me. They don’t want me now. And I don’t want them. I’ve always loved Liam as a brother, but I want nothing more of his kingdom. I have no desire to be its beloved princess or its dirty laundry. I have a girl back home that I love dearly and that’s all I want. That’s all I need. And that’s more than what you need to know about me.” 

“I didn’t mean to overstep,” Harry apologizes. 

Merida just shakes her head and touches Harry’s cheek with one hand. “You’re a good man, Prince,” she says, “but you and I are not friends. I care for your sister because Liam loves her and that is why I’m here. That is why I’ve told you everything you now know about me. I don’t regret it. But telling Liam — or anyone else — about my parentage isn’t something I intend to do. I hope you can respect that choice.” 

Harry doesn’t know if that requires a verbal response, so he simply nods. 

And with that, Merida is on her feet. “Shall we rejoin the party, then?” 

Harry smiles, remembers approaching her earlier. “Only if you save me a dance.” He hadn’t been imagining a dance then, but whatever he’d wanted to do earlier doesn’t matter now. 

“I’ll be sure to look at you from under my lashes and make everyone else in the room jealous.” She punctuates her words with a wink and it bubbles a laugh out of Harry. It feels like it’s been ages since he last laughed. 

“Shall we, then?” He offers her a hand and she links her arm through his. 

“I must say,” she whispers as they walk out of the room together, “I’m not liking a winter wedding very much. I mean, have you seen this gown? She may as well have asked me to just prance around naked.” 

Harry nudges her gently with his elbow. “If it’s any consolation, I tried to convince Gemma to move the wedding to early summer. Or spring, at least, but she’s even more stubborn than I am. Couldn’t change her mind.” 

“It will be a beautiful wedding, though,” Merida says, and then pauses, looks at Harry with raised eyebrows. “Will there be a wedding?” 

He doesn’t know. According to Merida, Liam is innocent in all this, but he doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t know with any certainty what Gemma will decide, but he can guess. “I know Gemma loves him. It will be her choice.”

“Let’s hope for the best then.” 

“Let’s go make some people jealous. You’re a sight to behold, Lady Merida.” 

She laughs then, lighter and easier than before, and it melts in the golden light around them.

▴▴▴

Harry excuses himself from the party not long after his dance with Merida, which attracted many curious, including those of the two queens and the lone king. He tried to ignore them, but it wasn’t exactly easy to do considering all the things he now knows about them. It took everything within him to not march up to Francis and demand to know where Gemma is, to not look Giovanna in the eye and ask her what it takes for a mother to give up her child over something as superficial as its gender. So he focused on Merida and the way she discreetly pointed out people around them, making up stories for them all and entertaining Harry with her charm and wit. But Harry can only stay with her for so long. 

He distances himself from Merida and tries to get out the ballroom unnoticed, which is difficult since Caspian has had his eye on Harry from the moment he came back inside with an unfamiliar lady on his arm. He knows he doesn’t need to explain anything to Caspian, but he also isn’t in the mood to tell that to the guard. Dancing and talking with Merida was a distraction that has now lost its luster and Harry is once again alone with his thoughts, unable to keep them at bay any longer. As he leaves the room, shadowed closely by Caspian, Harry thinks of Louis. He doesn’t know what to do with that man. There’s the soulmate connection between them, which should be Harry’s biggest worry, but that isn’t the only thing. If Merida is right and it’s the king and queen of Novac that took Gemma away, it still doesn’t explain how it was Louis’ father’s seal that ended up on the parchment from Gemma’s captors. Despite everything that Merida said, there is still more to the story than meets the eye and Harry is itching to find out what it is. He needs to know all the pieces so he can begin putting them together, but he doesn’t even know where to begin right now. Maybe he should talk to Niall and find out what he learned from Merida. She said she told Harry more, but he’s not sure he believes that. He’s not sure if he _should_ believe that. 

Harry ends up in the gardens. It’s cold and breezy, but he wants to sit by one of the fountains and hear the rush of water under a blanket of stars. The sky is cloudless, which is a rare occurrence in the winter, and it means that the stars are shining bright. Harry walks through the trees and bushes, stopping only to pluck a whitering white flower that he tucks in his hair because it matches his shirt. His clothes aren’t really meant to be worn outside in the winter — a silky white top with far too many but not enough ruffles under a shimmery golden cape made of silk and gossamer that extends to the backs of Harry’s knees. He paired it with black velvet trousers to match the bow at his neck and he knows he looks like the night has got wings, but he’s the Crown Prince. He simply cannot be outdone by someone in his own home. It’s always been a sort of competition between him and Gemma to see who could fish more compliments. They didn’t really keep track, but Harry’s almost certain he would win. 

Harry thought he would be alone here, but it appears that someone else wanted to get away from the crowd as well. 

Harry sits at the edge of the fountain and watches Arfa standing not too far away, only half obscured by the trees between them. She seems to be waiting for someone and, almost as if on cue, Harry sees Niall approaching. He won’t see Harry unless he looks directly to his right and towards the fountain — which he doesn’t. He’s got eyes for one person and he crosses the short distance to Arfa in long, somewhat leisurely strides. He doesn’t look relaxed, but Harry can’t be sure from such a distance. What Harry is sure of is this: Niall across from where Arfa is standing, him reaching out and touching her cheek tenderly, his face melting into a smile that Harry doesn’t recognize, her taking a step and closing the gap between them by wrapping her arms around his waist, her cheek pressed against his chest. 

Harry feels like an intruder. He looks away. 

But his mind is racing, much like the water gushing out of the fountain and it’s just another thing on top of everything else that seems to make no sense. He feels an irrational flare of jealousy because despite his best efforts, he hasn’t been able to befriend Arfa, but here is Niall, standing intimately close to her as though the two of them are in love and Harry can’t help but wonder when and how that happened. When does Niall even get the time to woo and romance a girl? And why wouldn’t he tell Harry anything about it if it means something serious to him? Why keep it a secret when he knows just about everything that happens in Harry’s life? 

Harry looks up at the sky, counts seventeen stars, looks back at his best friend just in time to see him kiss Arfa’s forehead. Niall puts his arm around her shoulders and leads her back inside the palace, withdrawing away from her as they reach the doors and leaving Harry with a million questions. Feeling more confused than ever, Harry heads back to his own room. He wants to talk to Niall, but he knows now isn’t the right time. He can’t make a scene and draw unnecessary attention to himself, especially not from the wrong people. He definitely can’t talk to his mother right now, as she’s probably with Giovanna at the moment — or somewhere near her. Thinking about it, it makes sense now that the queen of Novac has kept herself so close to Harry’s mother during this time. The closer she is to Anne, the less likely it is that she would miss out on any advancements regarding Gemma’s disappearance. What a diabolically conniving _bitch._

Harry’s room is dimly lit when he walks inside and he doesn’t bother trying to make it brighter. It takes only a few seconds for Prim to crowd around his feet and he bends to pick her up, letting her kiss his face. At least this is something that hasn’t changed. 

“Hi, my love,” he greets her and she whines in return. She’s been alone for hours, so Harry knows she missed him. He certainly missed her. “How’s my best girl?” She licks his chin in response and it makes Harry’s heart swell with love. Everything else in life may be a clusterfuck, but at least animals don’t betray or keep secrets or execute devious plans to further their devious agendas. Animals only love and want to be loved in return, something Harry feels deep in his soul. He wishes the world was simple enough to just love and be loved. It should be the only thing that matters. 

Harry goes to sleep feeling on edge. He doesn’t know what exactly Niall knows about whereabouts, he doesn’t know what his mother knows, and he doesn’t know what the next step for them will be. He doesn’t know what to make of what he saw happen between Niall and Arfa. He doesn’t know how Louis fits into the situation anymore, doesn’t know how he ever fit it and doesn’t know what to do about that. His thoughts keep swirling around in circles, tripping over each other and getting tangled in such a way that he can’t even begin pulling them apart. Eventually, sleep overpowers everything else and he gets lost in the darkness of his dreams. 

▴▴▴

The following day doesn’t start off kindly for Harry. 

It’s fine for a little while. Waking up is fine until he remembers everything Merida told him last night and he realizes he’d been hoping it was all the whiskey he drank that made him dream it all. No such luck for him. He remembers everything clear as day and he knows he needs to talk to Niall, like, right now, but he also needs to bathe first. He needs to physically wash away some of the secrets that cling to him like spoiled dirt and he needs a moment to just clear his mind, think of nothing but the warm water on his skin, the smell of lavender in his soap, the candles burning at the edge of his bathtub. Just a moment of serenity is all he wants but it all washes away like a tide when he feels the searing phantom pain he is so intimately familiar with now. It’s his back splitting open once more like and he knows, he just _knows_ the pain Louis feels is probably enough to leave him crippled for a while and then he’s scrambling out the water, hastily drying himself and throwing on whichever clothes his hands land on — sunflower yellow top, red trousers, a towel wrapped around his head even there are already droplets of water everywhere around him. Prim watches him from the bed without moving, only lifting her head to bark quietly once. 

“I’m okay,” he tells her, “but Louis isn’t.” 

He leaves his room wearing slippers and heads towards where Louis should be, but stops short in his tracks when he sees two figures walking away from him. One of them is Louis — Harry can tell by the way fresh blood is staining his white cotton top, the way he’s limping with every step he takes, the way the guard next to him has a death grip on his arm and Harry can’t help it when he walks faster, when he calls after them to stop where they are, when he marches up to the pair of them and pushes a stunned Alfieri back into a wall, when he nearly snarls, “Don’t ever touch him again like that.”

“Sir, he was —”

“Do not _ever_ touch him. I will cut your hands off myself if you lay so much as a finger on him.” The fear and confusion in the man’s eyes is palpable, maybe even justified to an extent, but Harry is nearly shaking with rage. This is the second time someone under his roof has intentionally hurt Louis enough to make him bleed through his clothes and that’s not something he can quietly watch happen. “Next time you touch what’s mine, I will make sure you never see the inside of this palace again for as long as you live.” 

Alfieri says nothing, his eyes trained stubbornly to the floor. 

“Have I made myself clear?” Harry asks. 

“Yes, Your Highness,” Alfieri says. 

“Now get the hell away from here and tell Niall I don’t want you near me again.” 

Once Alfieri is gone from sight completely, Harry turns to Louis — who’s staring at Harry in this bewildered, disoriented way, like he can’t at all make sense of what just happened. He looks at Harry and then towards where Alfieri disappeared, then looks back at Harry with questioning eyes. Harry doesn’t know what he’s trying to ask, so he has no answers to give. 

“Are you okay?” he asks even though it’s obvious that he’s not. 

“No,” Louis answers. It’s one word and yet his voice strains and cracks. “No, I’m not okay,” he says again, visibly clenching his jaw at _okay_ and Harry wonders what the hell happened. 

“I’ll take you to Arfa,” Harry says. Whatever Alfieri did, whatever Harry can’t see, it’s bad enough that fresh blood is seeping into Louis’ clothes and someone needs to take care of him. 

But Louis shakes his head. He closes his eyes and swallows, bites down on his lip, and then looks into Harry’s eyes. Unwavering, he grits out, “I have to talk to you.” 

“What you have to do is let someone have a look at —”

“I _need_ to talk to you, sir.”

Harry blinks. He’s not used to being interrupted like this by anyone other than Niall and Gemma, and maybe his mother on occasion. No one else. It just doesn’t happen. 

“What is it?” 

“Not here.” Louis leans against the wall and Harry digs his nails into his palms so he doesn’t physically flinch. Louis does, though. The instant his back touches the wall, he jolts away from it. “Please, I need to sit.” 

It’s the desperate edge in his voice that tugs at Harry’s heart and he instinctively reaches out to steady Louis. Louis flinches from that, too, wary eyes flickering from Harry’s hand to his face. “It’s okay,” Harry whispers. It reminds him of approaching a caged animal and something in him cracks in half. “It’s just me. I won’t hurt you.” It feels odd to speak to Louis in this quiet, hushed manner, but Harry doesn’t know what else to do. He can feel the ghost of that stinging pain on his back and he can’t even begin to imagine the degree to which Louis must be experiencing it. Guiding Louis by his elbow, Harry takes him back to his room. Louis tries to be silent and keep a blank face, but Harry doesn’t miss the occasional wincing. When they get back to Louis’ room, Harry locks the door. Louis doesn’t try to stop him. 

Harry watches as Louis carefully sits on the bed and pours himself half a glass of water from the jug that’s been placed on the bedside table. When he drinks it, it may be the most uncomfortable Harry has ever seen anyone drinking water. He tries to do it without lifting his head much, which is difficult to do while sipping from a glass, and Harry doesn’t really know what to do and what to say. He feels entirely useless because he doesn’t know how to help. 

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asks because maybe that’ll be a starting point. If he can figure out just what in the world went down between Louis and Alfieri, maybe the rest of it will fall into place on its own. Louis doesn’t answer him, though. Instead, he just closes his eyes and Harry resists the urge to throw his hands in the air because what was so important that Louis needed to tell him that they couldn’t go to see Arfa first? And if it was so important, then why isn’t he talking now? “I would prefer to know sooner rather than later,” Harry can’t help but mutter. 

“May I just... have a moment,” Louis grunts. His eyes open to find Harry’s and it’s like staring right into a stormy cloud, waiting for a flash of lightning to strike. Louis squirms, reaches behind him with one hand to pull at his shirt and Harry hears it from where he’s standing — the quiet, distinct squelching sound of fabric separating from something wet. That’s all it takes for him to spring into action without thinking any more. 

“Take it off,” he orders and it seems to startle Louis just a little. “The shirt,” Harry clarifies when Louis doesn’t do anything. “You need to take it off.” 

“I’m fine,” Louis winces. 

“Don’t lie to me.” 

“Then, please, just let me be.” 

“I can _see_ the blood seeping through your clothes. Hell, I can almost smell it, too,” Harry argues, feeling just a tad irked. Why can’t this man ever do as he’s told? “Take your shirt off before I do it for you.” 

Louis’ head snaps up this time. “I can’t!” he nearly shouts. “The more I move, the more it quite literally tears open my flesh, so if you don’t mind, Your Highness, I will leave my clothes on.” 

“Don’t move then,” Harry says and earns himself a scathing look from Louis. It was a useless thing to say, yes, but, really, he’s a bit stumped. He’s not a medic, he’s not well versed in profusely bleeding wounds, he’s not got a clue as to what to do next. He scans the room for a pair of scissors or something else with a sharp edge, but, of course, doesn’t find anything that could work. There isn’t a knife in sight, not a spare nail hanging off a wall, absolutely nothing. Another pained sound from Louis catches Harry’s attention, but his eyes fall on the almost empty glass of water in Louis’ hand. He crosses the distance between them and holds out his hand. “May I?” Looking more than a little skeptical, Louis gives him the glass. Harry walks around the bed to the other side of the room and he can feel Louis’ curious eyes following him. Once he’s a safe distance from Louis, Harry looks over his shoulder with his eyes closed and throws the glass at the wall. Tiny droplets of water come flying back at him and the glass is in pieces on the floor. Most of it is in flaky little bits, glinting like diamonds from certain angles, but some of it is exactly what Harry needs. Satisfied, he crouches down and picks up a shard of glass about the same size as his palm. Then he turns to Louis. 

“I don’t mean to be so crass,” Louis rasps, eyeing the piece of glass in Harry’s hand, “but are you out of your mind, Your Highness?” 

And for the first time since they’ve properly met each other, the insolent comment doesn’t make Harry bristle. Instead, it almost brings a chuckle out of him — almost. “I’m no Arfa, but this will have to do. Stand up for me, please,” Harry says as he walks back to where Louis is. Hesitantly, Louis gets to his feet in front of Harry. “Now, turn around.” Louis’ gaze flickers from Harry’s face to the shard of glass, lingers there long enough that Harry almost repeats himself, but then Louis moves to stand with his back to Harry. The white cotton shirt is less white and more red in places. It makes Harry want to break something. “You have to stand still now, please. I really don’t want to hurt you.” He brings his left hand up to Louis neck and slides a finger under the neckline to pull it away from Louis’ skin, using his right hand to position the broken glass next to his finger so he can cut open the shirt, but the thought of pushing the blade down on Louis’ neck makes his hands shake, so he kneels down and makes a cut in the hem of the shirt instead. He carefully tears the shirt up to the neckline bit by bit, taking care not to touch the freshly reopened cuts. “Can you tell me how this happened?”

“I was going to see you,” Louis says without pause this time and there’s a tremor in his voice. “I really needed to talk to you, I still do, but he wouldn’t let me. I tried explaining that it’s important, that he could come inside with me if he didn’t trust me, but he wasn’t quite listening and pushed me back against your door. The doorknob dug into some of the cuts, I think it tore some of the stitches, and then he shoved me aside and my back just... it grated against the wall and it hurts like hell. I can taste my own blood.” 

If Harry weren’t occupied here, he would drag Alfieri’s sorry, miserable ass off of the palace property himself. He will later. 

“You can talk to me once the bleeding stops,” Harry promises. He stares at the ravaged back of the man who, as it’s becoming more and more apparent, did nothing to deserve an ounce of this pain. Before he can think through what he’s doing, Harry reaches out and gingerly runs the tip of finger over a jagged cut at the dip in Louis’ spine, making Louis hiss in pain and cower away from Harry. “Sorry,” Harry blurts out because he doesn’t know why he did that, why he keeps doing things that make no sense, and then he says, “Come with me, I’ll help you,” and that doesn’t make sense, either, but he said it anyway, so he stands up.

Louis turns around slowly, pale blue eyes confused and wary and skeptical. He straightens his shoulders, tilts his head back to meet Harry’s eyes and Harry can feel the skin around his wounds straining with his effort to stand tall, and it’s so arrogant and stubborn and stupid, and he asks, “Why are you doing this?” 

“Doing what?” Harry throws back, even though he knows exactly what. 

“Doing this,” Louis gestures at himself. _“Helping_ me. Being a decent person. Treating me like a charity project. Take your pick.” 

Harry frowns. “I’m not doing charity,” he snaps, his irritation getting the best of him. How does Louis always do this? How does this man always manage to bring out the worst in Harry with just a few words? Harry isn’t the kind of person with a quick temper, he’s really not, but somehow with Louis, he always loses his cool. He doesn’t understand why. “I’m _helping_ because I’m the only one here right now,” he says slowly and more calmly. _He’s hurt, let him be._ “You got hurt coming to see me and I’m here now, so just let me help. I don’t turn my people into charities. Now let me help.” 

“Fine.” The word comes out begrudgingly, but at least it’s there. He looks at Harry expectantly, brows raising just the tiniest bit when Harry doesn’t move, and right — he needs to do something now. He doesn’t have any supplies to help properly, so it’s a little difficult to tell what to do next. There’s an adjoining bathroom; he could go in there with Louis and help wash his back, but the idea of asking Louis to possibly step out of his trousers while Harry’s in the room is, well, not appropriate and brings a flash of heat to Harry’s cheeks. _Okay, so not that._

“You wait here,” Harry tells Louis and walks towards the bathroom. He finds a pair of clean white towels there, folded neatly by the bathtub, so he picks up one of them and holds it under the faucet, letting it soak up the cold water. He’s acutely aware of the pain licking up and down Louis’ spine, pricking pins and needles across his back, so his hands shake only a little. It’s barely noticeable. It’s when he looks up into the mirror in front of him that he remembers his head is still wrapped in the towel from earlier. Feeling like an absolute fool, he quickly takes it off and dries off his hair as much as he can before letting the towel drop at the edge of the tub. He wrings out the water from Louis’ towel so it’s not dripping and then goes back outside. 

Louis is still standing exactly where Harry left him, this time with his arms crossed over his chest. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, but it’s weak. There’s no force in his voice, nothing to make Harry think he actually means what he’s saying. That distant pain is all Harry needs to know that he does have to do this. 

Harry comes to stand by Louis and then pauses — he didn’t think this far ahead. He needs to clean the blood off of Louis’ back, but he can’t do it standing up. He eyes the bed and Louis follows his gaze, his own eyes narrowing just slightly. “I need you to lay on your belly for me,” Harry tries to say it like a command, but it comes out sounding more like a request, like it’s a favor Harry’s asking of Louis and Louis can say no if he wants to and Harry hates it, hates the way he sounds so unsure of himself in this moment and in front of this man. When Louis stands motionless, Harry gestures at the bed, feeling his cheeks flush again and he hates it, hates it when he says, “Just lay down for a moment and make it easier for me.”

But something in Louis’ eyes sparks at the words, just a flicker of something flares in those pale blue eyes, but Harry can’t decipher what it is before Louis blinks and it disappears. “If I do this, you will listen to what I have to say,” Louis bargain, arms falling to his sides like defenses coming undone. 

“I will,” Harry promises. He doesn’t know what could be so pressing, but he knows he has to listen, so he will. 

Finally, _finally,_ Louis moves, cautiously stepping closer to the bed before hesitantly getting on it, gingerly laying on his side before settling onto his stomach. He keeps his arms on either side of him and it’s easy to see the muscles in them straining as Louis clenches and unclenches his fists. Once Louis stops moving, Harry sits on the edge of the bed, leaving a margin of space between his and Louis’ bodies, and he feels this... this irrational temptation to reach out and touch the marred skin on Louis’ back again, memorize the uneven peaks and valleys made by the jagged cuts and break the hands that caused them. He shakes that thought away and focuses on the task at hand — getting the blood off of Louis’ body. Some of the stitches that Arfa did have come loose and more than a few cuts are bleeding again, some more than others. Harry carefully wipes near Louis’ shoulder first, slowly, delicately, making sure not to snag the towel on a stitch. It’s not easy to do, given the state of Louis’ back, but Harry does it. He moves his hands slowly, avoiding any contact between the towel and sutures. All the while Louis is silent apart from these little sounds that escape him, like he’s trying to hold in his breath but can’t and Harry keeps hearing these quiet gasps, but he doesn’t think Louis is even aware of it, so he doesn’t say anything. There’s one deep cut on his spine, right near the middle, that’s been reopened and the sutures on it are broken — they look like they’re made of steel and Harry doesn’t know for certain, but he does know that he can’t use the towel on it. Biting at his bottom lip, Harry wipes at the blood around the cut with a trembling finger, willing himself to ignore the whimper that comes from Louis. He cleans his hand on the towel and then swipes at Louis’ skin again with two fingers, feels the soft flesh underneath his fingertip, feels the shudder that goes through Louis at the touch and pulls away. 

“Tell me why you needed to see me,” Harry speaks quietly as he dabs the towel gently at the dip in Louis spine. It reminds Harry of the white dianthuses that sometimes grow in the gardens — white, but gradually becoming covered in dark crimson blotches that take up most of the space. It’s an odd image, but Harry can’t quite shake it off his mind as he looks at the bloodstained cloth on Louis’ skin, becoming more and more red with each stroke. 

“I need to ask you for a favor,” comes Louis’ voice, and it quivers and trembles just a little, matches the cadence of Harry’s shaking hands, but it’s his words that make Harry pause. Louis — stubborn, proud, brazen, _stubborn_ Louis — asking Harry for a favor? Needing it so urgently that he risked bodily harm by showing outside Harry’s door and arguing with another guard? 

Harry’s heart skips a beat. “What is it?” 

“I need to — can I sit up now, please?” 

Harry stares at Louis’ back, at the torn up flesh and the dried blood. There’s half a moment where time hangs still and Harry sees himself in Louis’ place, exposed and vulnerable, holding onto whatever shreds of dignity he could grasp and — “Wait just for a second.” Stepping away from the bed, Harry rushes to the armoire and pulls out a grey cotton tunic that’s possibly a size too small on him, but he shrugs out of his silk top and replaces it with the cotton. It’s when he’s shutting the armoire that he notices the velvet jacket he covered Louis with days ago. It’s hanging there along with some other clothes and with one movement of his hand, Harry sees the blood stain still there in the silver satin on the inside of the jacket. He wonders why Louis still has it here. _Focus on what’s happening right now._ With the yellow shirt in hand, he goes back to where Louis is, carefully drapes the satiny material over his back and says, “Now you can get up.”

Louis does so slowly, taking his time to sit up, but the open cuts on his back still sting when he moves, reaches one hand behind him to pull the shirt off his back and hold it in his lap, stares at it like he doesn’t know what to do with it. “I don’t need — ” His words disappear into a cough that racks his entire frame and pulls at the ravaged skin on his back. “You don’t need to do this,” he tries again, this time sounding hoarse, “I don’t want to — this will get stained.”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t mind, it’s only a shirt.” He doesn’t mention that it’s one of his favorites, that Gemma gave it to him two years ago as a gift. He doesn’t want to. 

Louis doesn’t look convinced and he hesitates for a long wary moment, but then he sighs, just barely audible, and Harry knows he would’ve missed it if he weren’t paying attention to the way Louis’ shoulders rise and fall just a bit more dramatically only once. Then he puts his arms through the shirt, tries to pull it over his head in one swift motion, but he can’t and it burns and — he has his arms raised and it’s straining the muscles in his back, pulling and stretching the torn skin, licking flames up his spine and spilling down acid. Harry moves almost instinctively, guiding Louis’ arms through the sleeves and pulling the neckhole just a little wider so it doesn’t drag against his skin. 

“I’m fine,” Louis grunts, pulling away from Harry and putting some distance between them. Harry takes two steps back. It’s then that Harry sees his face, eyes narrow, brows furrowed, teeth gnawing at his lips, the yellow bruises on his cheeks, and it’s sickening. It makes Harry feel physically sick to know that Louis looks like right now partly because of Harry. 

“You are not fine,” he shoots back because it’s the truth. Louis isn’t fine and Harry’s sick of having to act like he is. Harry’s sick of _him_ acting like he’s fine, like there isn’t blood oozing out of his cuts and making the room drown in its metallic scent. “What was it you needed from me?” 

Louis stiffens, almost as though he’s bracing himself for something, then looks Harry in the eye before saying, “I need you to compel me.”

Harry stomach clenches. That’s not at all what he was expecting and, just like that, he remembers again why he doesn’t trust this man — he doesn’t know anything about him. But, surely, he misheard. There’s no way Louis is asking to be compelled, there’s no way that he — 

“I need you to compel me, please,” he says. 

“What are you — How do you know that I can —?” 

“You aren’t as discreet as you’d like to imagine,” Louis counters and if it sounds a little insulting, then Harry isn’t sure whether it’s intentional or not. “I need you to compel me,” Louis repeats again. 

“No.” There is no way Harry will take orders from someone like Louis, especially when there’s so much about the man that remains a mystery to everyone. 

“With all due respect, Your Highness,” Louis attempts a smile, but it’s pressed into a thin line of his lips. Not much of a smile at all. “You _want_ to compel me. I am trying to help you.” 

Those words have a chilling effect on Harry. Louis has not tried to _help_ them ever. In fact, he’s been the _least_ helpful he could possibly be and has made it plenty clear that was angry about being compelled, so what he’s saying now just doesn’t add up. 

“You don’t believe me,” Louis deduces with an air of barely there surprise — like he never expected Harry to believe him. He squares his shoulders, tilts his chin up almost defiantly, looks unwaveringly into Harry’s eyes before saying, “I know I failed in doing my job that night and I know, to an extent, I am to blame for Her Highness’ disappearance. I know that. What I don’t know is why that happened, because I am _good_ at my job. I’m not careless. I’m not heartless. I’ve always been diligent, so knowing that I failed to protect the princess when it was my duty to guard her is not easy for me.” There’s a flash of lightning in Louis’ eyes, crackling blue fire that nearly makes Harry shudder. “Something happened that night, something that I can’t quite recall, and I _need_ you to compel me to remember it. I get these flashes, just these random, flickering images, but the more I try to focus and put them in an order that makes sense to me, the more they get away from me. I know they’re there, but I need you to help me remember. Please.”

It’s a little bit like this: it’s a little bit like standing frozen in place, watching the fading bruises on Louis’ face, watching the angry red scab running along the length of his eyebrow, watching the way his hands fidget with the hem of Harry’s shirt, and it’s the stuttering of his own heart, the painful way it contracts in his chest at the possibility of hope and then he’s moving, taking the few steps that would bring him closer to Louis, and then Louis holds up a hand and Harry freezes again. 

“I have one condition,” Louis says and it’s a declaration more than it’s a request, which is odd, but nothing about him has been normal, so Harry allows it, gestures for him to go on. “This will be the last time you will compel me,” is Louis’ one condition. “You can help me remember the details of that night, but after that — after I’ve told you what you need to know in order to find Her Highness — you cannot compel me after that. Promise me that you won’t.” 

Harry stares, unsure of what to say. He doesn’t want to make a promise he won’t be able to keep, but he knows he needs to hear whatever it is that Louis’ been trying to remember. 

“You don’t know me,” Louis continues when Harry doesn’t do anything. “You don’t have to trust me blindly, because I know that you don’t know me. But I do know you. I know you love your sister.” His words become more and more impassioned the more he talks, almost frantic, and it tugs at something deep within Harry. “And whether you believe it or not, I care about her, too,” Louis says, and he sounds so earnest, so solemn. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am for failing her that night, for failing all of you, but I’m trying to help now. I want to make it right. Please, just — just let me do that.” 

There’s a moment of silence, — a long moment in which Harry stares at Louis with unspoken questions and Louis stares back with nothing but unwavering resolve and then Harry feels something cave inside him, something that makes him say, “Alright,” and he takes a seat at the edge of the bed. 

“Promise me,” Louis speaks the words right into Harry’s space. 

“Tell me how you know I can compel people,” Harry breathes back. 

“No.” The word hangs in the air between them, loud and mocking and challenging. It taunts Harry. Louis stares unblinkingly at Harry, unfazed that he’s openly and blatantly defying the crown prince. It makes Harry’s blood thrum with something unpleasant and something... unexpected, something that he doesn’t recognize. 

“Tell me,” he repeats, this time just barely disguising his annoyance. 

“Or what?” Louis bites back and his tone is sharp enough to cut someone in half. “Are you going to strip me of free will again to satisfy your ego?” 

Harry breathes. Or maybe he doesn’t. He can’t tell because it seems as though the air has been sucker punched out of him. 

“I’m giving you an opportunity to help find your sister when everyone else is keeping you in the dark. Why not just take it, princeling?” 

_Princeling._ He’s provoking Harry now. He’s bounded leaps ahead of that metaphorical line between crown prince and guard, leaving it nothing but dust between them and Harry _knows_ he’s trying to get a reaction out of him. _You need him right now,_ Harry has to remind himself. _Gemma needs you._ He can teach Louis proper decorum later. 

“Fine,” he says with faux calm, looks into Louis’ sky blue eyes and focuses on the deepest blues, watches as they slowly lose their sharp edge. He doesn’t really know what he needs to ask, what he _should_ ask, so it takes a minute before he can speak. He starts at the beginning. “Tell me about the night Gemma was taken. Where were you?” 

“I was with her all night,” comes Louis’ voice and the monotonous sound of it is such a stark change from his usual razor sharp tone. “I shadowed her everywhere, before the party started and during it. I don’t know how many of us were watching her, but I didn’t lose sight of her for a moment.”

Harry remembers what Louis said a few days ago, when they questioned him in front of the queen. He remembers Louis admitting that Niall ordered him to stand guard outside Gemma’s chambers when she was inside, remembers Louis saying that something felt wrong and he went inside to keep an eye on Gem. “Why did you go inside Gemma’s room when you weren’t told to?” 

Louis’ eyebrow twitches. “I knew I had to. They were — there was a guard. I don’t think he was ours. He was eating something and I was hungry, I hadn’t had anything to eat in hours. He offered me a drink and I took it. Before. This was before.” 

“Before what?” 

“In the ballroom. I couldn’t stand around and eat, I had to keep moving so I could stay with the princess, so I just took the drink. Just to humor the hunger for a little bit. I think it was laced.” 

_I don’t think he was ours._ Something heavy settles around Harry’s heart and pools in his stomach and it feels a lot like dread. “Who gave you the drink?” 

“I don’t know him. I know — I can remember his face now, but I don’t know him. But he was wearing our blue. He looked like he was ours, but I don’t think he was.” 

He needs Niall. He has to tell Niall all of this. “You have to remember him,” Harry tells Louis and he sounds so desperate, so frantic. “Remember that face, Louis.” 

“Yes,” is all Louis says, again in that same detached tone. 

_Please remember it later._ “What else happened?” 

“When I went inside her chambers, someone jumped out at me. Someone was already there waiting and they were wearing our colors. I saw them break Nadia’s neck because she — they had Her Highness and Nadia was trying to get to her and one of the men got his hands on her and I heard the sound of her neck snapping. I know they killed her.” 

Images of Nadia flash in front of Harry’s eyes, all of them overlayed by the memory of seeing her body at the foot of Gemma’s bed, her neck and arm twisted at an odd, painful angle. 

“They said...” Louis hesitates, like one part of him is trying to say something and another part is protesting, like there’s a physical battle between two parts of him, and it’s strange. That never happens if Harry compels someone. They don’t make an effort to hide something. They can’t. 

“They what?” Harry prods, uses that voice of his that he knows they can’t resist. “What did they do?” 

Louis bites at his lip and it drives Harry mad, it makes him want to pull his hair out because _why_ is he not answering immediately? Why does nothing about him make sense? 

“What did they do, Louis?” 

“They said the name Havlicek. They said they had to take Havlicek’s son with them.”

“Who the hell is Havlicek?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Harry doesn’t recognize the name. He’s certain he’s never heard it before and he’s sure Louis’ telling him the truth. He knows Louis’ telling the truth — it’s in the hazy blue of his eyes, the way he blinks at Harry slowly without seeing anything that isn’t the events of that night. It’s the cut above his eyebrow that draws Harry’s attention, the dark red scab marring the otherwise perfect skin, and Harry doesn’t really know why, but he reaches out on impulse, runs his thumb along it and Louis doesn’t move an inch. He touches the yellow bruise on Louis’ cheekbone, keeps his touch feather light, and Louis doesn’t move. He presses down on it and Louis doesn’t move, but a faraway ache blossoms in Harry’s own cheek, right where his hand is touching Louis’. 

“You’re going to forget this,” Harry says slowly, making sure to enunciate every word well, “I’m going to tell you something now and you’re going to erase it from memory.” 

He doesn’t know if he should. He doesn’t know if it’s the right thing to do, but he has to do it at some point. He can compel Louis today. He can’t do it after today. That was Louis’ own condition, so, really, Harry isn’t going back on his word and he never really promised, anyway. He can do it today without it weighing down on his conscience. 

Louis stares at him blankly. 

“You are my person,” Harry tells him, fingers still tracing the fading bruise. “You’ve always been my person. And I’ve always been yours. The pain of every cut and bruise on your body is half mine. You don’t know it, but you’ve felt the pain of my broken wrist. You’ve known my pain as yours without knowing it’s me.” Harry looks down at Louis’ wrists, at how soft and pink the skin is. He ignores the temptation to touch it. “You’re going to forget I told you this. I will find a way to break this bond and you will never know I told you anything.” 

He would’ve said more, he thinks, but his mind goes blank when there’s a loud, banging knock against the door. He instinctively looks towards it, turns back to find an alarmed Louis looking into his eyes, and okay. That’s over for now. He doesn’t say anything to Harry, doesn’t ask any questions, which is good. That’s good. Harry did his part in telling him about their connection — the fact that he won’t remember it isn’t Harry’s problem. 

Harry gets up from the bed and walks wordlessly towards the door, opens it without asking who it is, only to find Niall on the other side. He’s in full uniform and he looks at Harry’s quizzically, but it only last for the briefest second before he says, “I know where Gemma is.” 


	3. i'm down on my knees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry Realizes things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am... so so so sorry abt how long it's taking me to finish this damn thing. like i'm truly embarrassed. life has just been something else for me lately and i've been busy with stuff, plus writer's block is a bitch. also... don't hate me bc this isn't the last chapter there'll be one (1) more i'm SO sorry skfhdk im rlly rlly sorry i just dont wanna rush the story after all the time i've spent on getting it right thus far so i just wanna do it right and do the characters justice so i will stretch it one more chapter and make sure everything happens at the right pace. thank u so much for reading this, esp if you've been here a while. it means the world to me and i can't thank u enough for giving me and my characters a chance xx (this isn't edited rn but it will be eventually)

_"Two souls are sometimes created together and in love before they’re born.” — F. Scott Fitzgerald_

* * *

Niall is cryptic and Harry is losing his goddamn mind. 

It’s times like these that Harry really _hates_ Niall for being Captain and being the way he is — confident, unwavering, in control of everything. He might be Harry’s best friend and Harry might outrank him by being the prince, but Niall’s the _Captain_ and it’s his _job_ to lead the guards, which means he doesn’t really care what Harry has to say because it isn’t Harry’s job. Harry can’t give those orders. And that’s exactly why this _situation_ is getting on Harry’s last nerve. 

“I know you said you don’t remember everything,” Niall is saying to Louis, who looks absolutely bewildered. “You have to try, though. Try just a little harder to remember something else, anything that will help me. Whether you want to help me as your superior or as your friend, that’s up to you, but this is about Gemma. I know you care about that.” 

_As_ _your superior or as your friend._ Niall and Louis being friends is news to Harry, but not for now. The list of questions he has for Niall is ever growing and he needs time to get his answers. 

“The drink, Louis,” Harry interjects when Louis keeps staring at Niall silently. Louis’ eyes snap towards Harry, like he has no idea what Harry’s talking about. “I told you to remember,” Harry tries again, does his best to keep his voice understanding, “you told me someone gave you a drink. I told you to remember him.” 

“When was this?” Niall asks, his tone changing completely from a minute ago. 

“A little while ago,” Harry answers. 

Niall shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. He’s pacing across the room, going back and forth from the bed to the door. “No, when did that happen? Who was it?” 

Harry looks at Louis expectantly and so does Niall. They’re still in Louis’ room and the door is locked again, but it feels different somehow than it did when it was just Harry and Louis. There’s... tension that wasn’t present before, something tangible in the air that manifested with Niall being in the room and Harry’s not sure he likes it. It was easier before when he was alone with Louis, when he didn’t have to worry about what he said or did, because it was only Louis. Now Niall is here and he’s cataloging every word and every move in the way that only Niall does and it makes Harry feel strangely exposed. He’ll ask Harry why Louis’ wearing his shirt, for sure, and why Harry’s wearing something that clearly doesn’t belong to him. It’s a good thing he doesn’t know what Harry compelled Louis to forget because, wow, would there be hell to walk through if he knew. 

It’s a long moment weighed down by heavy silence before Louis speaks up again. 

“It was before I went up with her, much earlier in the night. I remember she was speaking with some ladies who looked like they came from Novac, but I’m not entirely sure. I didn’t recognize them. And the guard who gave me the drink — he was wearing our uniform, he talked like us, but he didn’t look too familiar.” Louis stops, squirms in place like he’s itching to get up and bolt, but stays put. At the same time, Harry feels tiny pricks of pain lighting up his back like stars in the summer sky. “Nothing happened, I just — I don’t think it affected me then, but it definitely did later. Whatever was in it, I think that’s why I forgot pieces of the night. It has to be.” 

Niall stopped pacing and now he’s looking at Louis like... like he just struck gold, but there’s thunder in his eyes like Harry has never seen before. “That’s good,” he says, and he sounds so like the Captain of the Guard that Harry has come to know so well. “That matches what Perreault said.”

“Who’s Perreault?” Harry asks at the same time as Louis. 

“He’s the bastard I brought back yesterday,” Niall more or less spits out, like the words taste bitter in his mouth, and Harry feels it, too — the metallic, unpleasant taste of blood, can almost smell it, feel it on his skin from yesterday when he washed it off of Niall’s face. There are two angry red lines running down his right cheek where he was cut and seeing it sends a flare of anger through Harry once again. He needs to have a chat of his own with that man and he’s about to say as much when Niall speaks again. “I’m sending out a search party for Gems and he’ll be going with them, so Harry, please, don’t even think about saying what I know you want to.” 

The sharp look he cuts towards Harry makes it evident that he isn’t in the mood to argue about it and isn’t going to budge on it. Fine, then. Harry can talk to him when they all come back. 

“Do you know where she is?” Louis asks, his tone more inquisitive than anything else. He doesn’t sound surprised, he doesn’t sound alarmed — it’s like he had no doubt Niall would figure it out, like it was only a matter of when rather than if. 

“We have a general idea of her location, yes,” Niall says easily, confidently. “They’ll leave in an hour or so, I need to go down and make sure everything is ready, but yes. We know where she is and we’re bringing her back.” 

And then it’s one two three seconds passing and Louis standing up from the bed in a way that _sounds_ painful, but when he stands, he looks... defiant. “I’m going with them,” he tells Niall and he does it without any hesitation, without any uncertainty. 

The word _no_ is right at the tip of Harry’s tongue, it’s only a moment away from tumbling out, but Niall beats him to it, looks at Louis like he’s lost the plot and asks, “Have you lost your mind?” 

“No,” Louis says without shrinking back, his spine straight as a rod and his chin held high. “I lost her. That’s on me. I’m going to go and bring her back.” 

“Tom —”

“No, listen to me, Niall.” There’s an air of impatience lacing his words, a sense of urgency that Harry hasn’t gotten used to hearing in his voice. Niall stops trying to talk, though, and that’s another strange thing. Niall letting one of his men interrupt him and listening quietly, intently. “I _lost_ her. I tried my best, but it wasn’t good enough and I lost her. I got beaten to a pulp more than once. I was locked up in this room and treated like a criminal. I was humiliated by people who called themselves my friends not even a week ago. I am still bleeding — I am _literally_ bleeding right now, as we speak — because you didn’t trust me like you should have,” Louis rattles off, like he has had a long list of grievances just waiting to be let out, like if he’ll choke on the words if he doesn’t. “I’m going to set my mistake right, whether you like it or not.” 

The silence that follows after is deafening. It consists of Niall looking at Louis in a way that’s hard to read and Harry looking between the two of them, his heart beating in his throat. It’s like Niall can’t decide if he hallucinated everything Louis just said or like he doesn’t really know what to do with what Louis just said and the unnecessary suspense of it all is curling unpleasantly in Harry’s stomach, making him want to tug at his hair or find Darling so he can ride somewhere far away from everything. 

“Alright, then,” Niall says finally with a curt nod and, surely, Harry misheard him. “I’ll have Arfa come up here,” he keeps talking as though Louis is really going, “she can take care of your back before you have to leave.”

“No,” Harry cuts in finally, when his mouth catches up with his brain, and he walks up to where Niall is standing and says, “He’s not going.” Niall just stares back at him without a word, like he’s already made up his mind and doesn’t care that Harry’s opposing him. “I won’t allow it, Niall.” 

“Last I checked, Your Highness, I make the decisions regarding my Guard. You have no authority over that.”

Harry blinks twice. Resists the urge to look over his shoulder to see Louis’ reaction to the words. “I’m the crown prince, Niall.” Harry takes a step closer to Niall, lowers his voice to say, “Don’t make a scene here. He can’t go.” 

“At the risk of sounding incredibly rude...” comes Louis’ voice from somewhere behind Harry and it trails off when both Harry and Niall turn their attention to him. Louis’ standing not too far away, Harry could cross over to him in a few leaps, and he sees Louis stiffen slightly. “I say this with all due respect, but neither of you will make any decisions for me.” He says it slowly and surely, each word more purposeful and deliberate than the last, but it’s his eyes that betray his confidence — there’s something there, something vulnerable and unguarded. He blinks and it disappears before Harry can latch onto it. 

“You work for us,” Harry reminds him. “You’re a guard in this palace and I forbid you from going anywhere near my sister and potentially sabotaging the mission because you’re too weak and too proud.” He doesn’t say that he’s worried, doesn’t say that he’s tired of Louis constantly being hurt. He doesn’t need to. Louis doesn’t know that his pain is Harry’s pain. 

Louis doesn’t look fazed, though. He simply blinks once, looks into Harry’s eyes with such intensity that it’s like he’s seeing more than just their color, and says, “I no longer work for you.” At Harry and Niall’s blank looks, he clarifies: “I’m resigning from my position in the Guard. I am no longer your employee and I will go to find _my_ princess. You can allow me to go with the search party, or I will follow them on my own. That choice is yours, but nothing else. Not anymore. From this moment on, I do not work for the crown.” 

That’s not what Harry expected him to say and now he doesn’t know what he wants to say, what he can say. He can’t force Louis to work for the crown, he can’t force Louis to stay out, he can’t force Louis to do anything and he doesn’t know what to do because this isn’t something he ever prepared for. Beside him, Niall is just as stunned. 

“Louis —” Harry begins, ready to tell him he’s still not allowed to go after Gemma, but the name is all he can get out before Louis cuts him off. 

“I’m sorry, but no. No. Maybe I’m overstepping and I apologize if I am, but I’m not going to be treated like a puppet anymore. You’ll have to chain me if you don't want me to bring back Princess Gemma myself.” 

And something in Harry splinters at that, snaps in half and he can’t keep his anger and annoyance at bay, lets it all wash over the worry coiling around his heart. “Fine,” he bites, and maybe he sounds childish, but all he feels is irritation at the man standing in front of him, defiant and insolent as always. “You go and you prove to everyone that you’re a hero,” Harry spits out. “Go and stroke that insatiable ego of yours. But do not come whimpering and complaining if someone gets their hands on you because your pride got the best of you.” 

Something untamed flashes in Louis’ eyes. “Griping about momentous egos doesn’t suit you, Your Highness,” is all he says. 

Hot flames lick down Harry’s spine and for once he can’t tell if it’s the ghost of what Louis’ feeling or something that is entirely his own. 

Louis’ face is a mask of calm, a facade he’s surely putting on for someone other than Harry. “I’ll go and see Arfa,” he says, “and then I’ll be out of here.” Harry watches in stunned anger as Louis cross the room, walking past him and Niall without a pause. It’s when he reaches the door that he looks over his shoulder to say, “I don’t expect an apology for the way I was treated by you and others, but I hope it taught you something about abusing the power you have over others.” And then he’s gone, leaving behind words that seem too big to fit in this space and Harry’s standing in the room that has become Louis’, unable to shake those words off.

The silence that hangs in the air after Louis leaves is... heavy. And it’s mocking Harry. He’s aware of Niall standing just a little ways away, watching Harry, no doubt with questions on his tongue. It’s Harry’s turn to ask, though. Niall can wait. 

But in typical Niall fashion, he beats Harry to the punch. 

“He can hold his own, huh?” he asks, and it’s a rhetorical question, but it sounds appreciative, and Harry can’t help but feel just slightly confused. Niall shouldn’t sound... _proud._ He shouldn’t sound encouraging of the kind of behavior that was just displayed by Louis, but he does, like he genuinely is proud, like what Louis just did is somehow admirable. 

“He quit,” Harry reminds his friend, just in case that slipped his mind in the last few minutes. “He was rude and had no respect for me _or_ you. That’s not holding his own, that’s simply being discourteous.”

“I don’t know,” Niall hedges, “I think he held his own pretty well. Against you, of all people. Don’t know if you know this, but that takes some unshakable resolve. I have newfound respect for him.” 

Harry stares, incredulous. Anger and annoyance simmer just underneath his skin, so close to breaking through. “Fine, that’s wonderful, I’m delighted you have newfound respect for someone who just walked out on you, ” he snipes, and, yes, he’s angry that Louis had the audacity to do what he just did, but it’s more than that. He’s putting himself in danger, this time doing so intentionally. “He’s my — Niall, he’s my _person.”_ The words come out like a plea and Harry isn’t quite sure what he’s pleading for. _Don’t lie to yourself._

“Did you tell him that?”

“Yes.”

That gets Niall’s attention. He stares at Harry for a long beat and then shakes his head. “You’re lying.” 

“I told him he’s my soulmate. Then I made him forget it.”

It takes less than half a second for understanding to settle into Niall’s features. He walks closer to where Harry is, lifts an arm and reaches behind Harry for something — hits the back of Harry’s head. Hard. “You are a certified ass. You’re a horrible, _horrible_ self-absorbed bastard. Horrible.”

Harry scowls, only slightly offended by his best friend’s words, but he doesn’t have the time to say anything in response because Niall isn’t done. 

“How _dare_ you take away something so important from him? Harry, you... God, you make me lose my goddamn mind. What is _wrong_ with you?” He starts pacing, hands tugging at his hair and words coming out in a way that makes Harry feel guilty. “So. You told a man he’s your soulmate. You told him he has a _soulmate._ You made him forget it. You took away something that _isn’t yours to take._ Then you tried to make a decision that isn’t yours to make and cost me one of my very best men?” 

Put it like that and Harry hates the man Niall is describing. That isn’t Harry. That isn’t who he wants to be. He knows he can be an arrogant prick at times, doesn’t deny it one bit because, well, he may be a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one. He didn’t lie to Louis, either, but still there’s guilt tugging at his insides like he did something wrong. 

“You’re going to make this right,” Niall is saying, oblivious to the strange feeling twisting itself around Harry’s heart. He stops walking back and forth from the window to the door, standing midway between the two, and looks at Harry. He looks angry and for once, Harry can’t tell which Niall he is looking at — his best friend or the Captain of the Guard. “Louis will go with the others to get Gemma, but when he comes back, you’re going to fix this. You’re going to get him back. I don’t care what you have to do — apologize, beg, grovel as much as you need to. You will get him to work for me again.”

Harry waits for the inevitable punchline to come, but it doesn’t. Niall’s looking at him like he means every word he just said and Harry is flabbergasted. He may be in the wrong here to a degree, but it comes with a limit. “I will do absolutely no such thing,” he informs Niall, offended at the mere suggestion that he would be willing to beg anyone, let alone Louis of all people. 

“Yes, you will,” Niall says confidently. “You will tell him the truth about the two of you and you will convince him to work here again.”

“I’ll tell him the truth again, eventually, but I am not getting down on my knees for a man like Louis. I won’t do it. Whether he works here or not has no effect on me.” 

As if on cue, as if he knows he’s being talked about, Louis retaliates. It starts as a burn, just one, scorching hot pain in his shoulder blade and then it spreads, fire chasing its way across his back, searing his skin like it’s made of tissue paper, and, _oh,_ he could kill someone. 

“Set your giant fucking ego aside, Harry, or so help me,” Niall swears, and he has more to get off his chest, Harry is sure, but his words get cut short when he gets a look at Harry’s face. The anger simmers down a little, concern flashing in his eyes. “What is it?” 

“Louis,” Harry grits out. He must be with Arfa now, he’d _better_ be with Arfa, because any other alternative is making the edges of Harry’s vision flare red. 

“What about him?” 

“I don’t know, he’s —” It keeps burning, like his skin is being branded with white hot iron, and it brings tears to his eyes. “He’s such a _pain,_ Niall.” 

Niall doesn’t say anything, but there corner of his mouth twitches just a little and Harry knows him well enough to know the joke he wants to make. He doesn’t say it, but it breaks the tension between them by a single crack. It’s enough for Niall to shake his head like he’s brushing off this entire conversation. “I don’t have time to fight right now, but this isn’t over,” he tells Harry, then starts walking towards the door. “I have things to take care of, but I’ll find you later. We aren’t done talking.”

“We definitely aren’t,” Harry calls after him. “Consider this your official warning to think up whatever lie you may want to tell me about Arfa.” 

Niall stops short right outside the room, pivots to face Harry. “What do you know?” 

Harry can’t help but smirk, even though his body is screaming through pain that isn’t his. “I’ll find you later,” he mimics Niall. 

If looks could kill, Niall’s would’ve turned Harry to dust about ten seconds ago. 

▴▴▴

Harry finds Louis downstairs with Arfa in the infirmary. The door is open, so Harry leans against it and watches as Arfa wraps clean, white bandages around Louis’ torso. It leaves a sting on Harry’s own skin, but it’s not entirely unwelcome. The burning sensation is gone, replaced by this aching weight, this strange soreness around his abdomen and his shoulder blades. Harry’s yellow shirt is in dangling from Louis’ hand, his fingers curled into the fabric, almost like he’s holding it as a tether. He remembers he’s still wearing Louis’ cotton top and standing where anyone passing by can see him. Harry doesn’t let himself think about it. Instead, he watches the expert way Arfa’s hands move over Louis’ body, the somewhat relaxed curve of his shoulders. Arfa doesn’t say anything when she spots Harry standing at the door, but he smiles at her. He thinks she smiles back, he’s not sure, but it must catch Louis’ attention because he looks over his shoulder and his entire body goes visibly taut. He looks away just as quickly. 

_“I don’t expect an apology for the way I was treated by you and others, but I hope it taught you something about abusing the power you have over others,”_ echoes in Harry’s head, along with: “ _You took away something that isn’t yours to take.”_

Harry doesn’t want to think about that. He knows he has to tell Louis, he _knows_ it, but he doesn’t want to do it until he knows his way out of this bond. He needs to find that first. Louis can wait to find out the truth. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. If anything, Harry’s the one who keeps feeling the pain of everything else hurting Louis. _You’re not the one actually hurting,_ whispers a faraway voice, and he feels like such a prick for even comparing their two situations. Of course he can’t possibly imagine the severity of the excruciating pain that Louis must feel. Of course he can’t possibly even begin to understand the constant agony Louis must have been in since this madness started. But it’s better this way, isn’t it? Why tell Louis about this now when neither of them can do anything about it? Why put that added burden on Louis when he’s already got enough to deal with? 

_He deserves to know._

Louis puts Harry’s shirt back on. Something about watching him do that tugs at Harry’s heart almost longingly and he doesn’t understand it, doesn’t know what it means, so he tries to ignore it. It’s still there, though. This inexplicable urge to... do something. He doesn’t get it. Louis says something to Arfa that Harry can’t hear and then Louis hugs her. Her hands come up to rest against his back, gently, and there’s that feeling again. The strange, unfamiliar tug. Harry doesn’t like it. Then Louis steps back from Arfa, turns around and walks towards the door, his eyes meeting Harry’s for just a moment before he walks past Harry and out of the room without a word. It’s rude for Louis not to acknowledge Harry’s presence verbally, but Harry’s getting tired. He’s getting so tired of fighting everything Louis does. He doesn’t understand what he could have possibly done for Louis to be so cold and indifferent towards him. 

He’s been an arrogant bastard, but can’t Louis understand? Can’t he try to put himself in Harry’s shoes and try to imagine one of his sisters missing? Can’t he sympathize? It’s not like Harry’s a bad person, so why can’t Louis just try to understand? 

“Thank you,” Harry says in Arfa’s direction. When she looks at him quizzically, he adds, “For taking care of him.” And then he follows after Louis, rushing to catch up to him. 

Louis doesn’t stop even when Harry falls into step with him. He keeps walking silently and Harry’s not sure where he’s going, exactly, but he’s making his way outside the palace. So Harry walks alongside him, not wanting to stop and make a scene where anyone can see and hear, but he can feel the tension between him and Louis. It’s palpable. As if he can hear Harry’s thoughts, Louis comes to an abrupt stop and asks, “Is there something I can do for you?” 

“Don’t go.” The words come out before Harry has a chance to think through them and then it’s too late to take them back, too late to take away the note of desperation that swims between them. 

“Excuse me?” 

Harry doesn’t know what to say. He didn’t think this far ahead. He just wants Louis to stay out of harm’s way, but he doesn’t know how to do that. 

“I want you to stay here,” he says finally, watching the way Louis’ eyes narrow at that, the way his jaw tightens. There’s a rigidity in his body, the way he’s standing with his back straight and shoulders squared. Defiant. His eyes are so blue. They’re damning, almost. Enticing. And angry. They’re always angry at Harry and he doesn’t understand what for, not exactly. 

“I told you, Your Highness,” Louis says quietly, confidently, before he starts walking again. Harry follows instinctively. “I’m going to bring the princess back. I’m doing so as a civilian, not as your employee.” 

There are guards stationed at every door, every corner, and Harry does his best to ignore them. He knows they can’t listen to the conversation from where they are, but he still feels paranoid. So he keeps his mouth shut until they’re out of the palace, Louis leading the way towards the stables. Harry doesn’t know why he’s heading that way right now when he should be getting ready to leave, but he doesn’t ask. He’s here to convince Louis _not_ to leave. The cold air makes him shudder and he can see each breath that leaves Louis in the air in front of him. It’s a little hypnotizing. Louis isn’t wearing anything warm, though. He’s wearing Harry’s yellow silk shirt, dark trousers, and nothing else. His teeth chatter just a bit and Harry wants to comment on it, but he doesn’t. There’s no use starting that argument. But now that they’re alone and away from the guards, Harry can talk. 

“Don’t go, Louis,” he says again without preamble when they’re walking into a stall. Before Louis can brush him, though, he rushes on. “There’s no need for you to go. Whatever party Niall has assembled, they’ll bring Gems back. You don’t need to go and put yourself in danger when you’re already hurt.”

“I’m not going as a favor to you.” His words are calm on the surface, but Harry can hear an undercurrent of something. He can almost taste it. 

“Then do me a favor, please,” Harry hears himself say and there’s that desperation again. He hates it. He hates how vulnerable he sounds, but he doesn’t know how to hide it, either. He can still feel the ghostly flames running up and down his spine and he doesn’t know how to hide his fear. 

“Why should I?” is Louis’ response and it’s one Harry wasn’t ready for. Louis pets the black stallion as he says his next words without looking in Harry’s direction. “Why should I do you any favors? And, please, spare me the crown prince arrogance for once.” 

All Harry can hear is static. His heart is beating in a strange rhythm that makes him feel physically off balance and he doesn’t know what to say. He knows what Louis said, he understands the words, but he doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t know what Louis means because no one ever talks to Harry like this. Ever. Not his mother, not sister, not Niall. No one. 

“What do you mean?” is all he can ask. 

Louis’ eyes fall on Harry’s and Harry can’t really _breathe_ well because it’s fucking cold and Louis is making his skin feel hot and then he says, “Why should I do you any favors, Harry?” 

_Harry._ He’s heard his name countless times in his life, but never like this. He’s never heard his name fall from Louis’ mouth. He’s never heard it like this, coated in soft silk and honey and hot enough to burn. _Harry._ Louis keeps watching him with those thunderous eyes and he can’t even _think._ It hits Harry then, when Louis raises his eyebrows, that he isn’t just talking to a guard. Louis has never just been a guard. He’s Harry’s _soulmate,_ his equal. The realization makes him weak in the knees and Harry doesn’t know what to do with that. 

“Are you going to say something, or can I be alone now?”

“Shut up,” Harry says. It’s all he can say and it comes out so meek. The words are there, somewhere, but he doesn’t know how to say them to Louis without telling him everything. He can’t know yet. He can’t know anything until Harry has found a way to sever their bond for good. “Can you just —” 

“Can I _what,_ Harry?” 

“Stop saying my name like that.” 

“It’s your name. What else am I supposed to call you?”

Harry doesn’t know. He’s about to say that his title has worked just fine up until now, but he can’t. He can’t, not after he heard Louis say _Harry_ and how it _settled_ around Harry. He doesn’t want a title. He doesn’t know what he wants. 

“I just want — I want you to stay here, please. I’m not asking you as a prince, I’m asking you as —” He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he is to Louis. “Can you just trust me, for once?” 

“No.” Louis snaps. His eyes are ablaze now. It sends a shiver through Harry. “Right now, here, you are not a prince and I am not a guard. You’re Harry, I’m Louis, and you have given me absolutely no reason to trust you. Just when I was starting to think that maybe I could — for a _moment,_ I thought I could trust you. You had me completely exposed and you wiped my blood away with your bare skin, so I thought maybe, _maybe,_ I could trust you. But then you manipulated me yet again when you told me I’m your _person_ and then tried to make me forget it.” 

Harry can’t breathe. There isn’t enough air in the world to fill his lungs and it’s tilting sideways, too. He has to grip the wooden bars behind him. Louis knows. Louis _knows._ Harry can’t breathe. 

“Set aside the dramatics, please. The very _nerve_ of you to think you could tell me something like that, only to then take it upon yourself to wipe my memory? I don’t trust you for one goddamn second, Princeling.” 

Harry knows he’s spiraling. There’s this thing that happens sometimes. Most of Harry’s major meltdowns have been alone and they’ve been triggered by a physical sensation — the kind that always abuses Harry because of something that Louis is feeling. This is different. Words don’t cause him this kind of panic. Last time was just a day ago when Harry realized Louis remembers being compelled by him and — oh. Oh. _Oh._ Fuck. It all comes rushing back to Harry, the words and memories hitting and washing over him like a cold wave. Louis remembered the first time Harry compelled him. Louis remembered the second time Harry compelled him. Harry still doesn’t know how, but Louis clearly also remembers the last time. He _remembers,_ even though Harry clearly told him to forget it. Somehow, he remembers. And he knows everything Harry has tried so hard to keep from him.  
“How do you know that?” Harry asks, because none of it makes any sense to him. He still can’t breathe properly and he can’t understand how Louis _knows._ He was supposed to forget it

“You can’t compel me like everyone else, Your Highness.” _Your Highness._ It sounds so wrong now and it only makes everything more confusing. His hands feel numb. Louis sounds a little far away. “I may not be immune, but I know how to resist it. Guess you didn’t think that one through. Apologies for that.” Louis doesn’t sound apologetic. He sounds taunting. And derisive. He gets distracted when the horse next to him lowers its neck and nuzzles the side of Louis’ face and Harry watches Louis’ entire demeanor soften. _Malachi,_ Harry realizes — one of the only two horses that don’t like Harry. He seems to be liking Louis, though. Louis stands still as Malachi affectionately nudges his head and then Louis brings up a hand to the horse’s mane and he — he _laughs._ It’s a quiet sound, not meant for Harry to hear, but it’s there, floating in the space between Louis and his horse. “You ready for a ride, champ?” 

Louis presses his forehead into the horse’s side and then steps away. His eyes meet Harry’s and he says, “Have a good day, Prince,” as he walks by Harry. 

Harry’s hand reaches out of its own volition and his fingers curl around Louis’ wrist. “Don’t just leave,” he says softly, his resolve crumbling when he feels the bandage still covering Louis’ skin. He doesn’t know how to make Louis understand, how to make him stay. He doesn’t even know if he has any right to anymore. 

Louis’ eyes are stuck where Harry’s hand is holding on to Louis, the only point of contact between the two. Harry can’t tell if Louis is breathing or not. It’s the only time Harry has touched Louis when he isn’t trying to ease his pain. Something about it makes Harry’s heart stagger in place. 

_You’re my person. Please don’t leave._

“I have nothing to stay for,” Louis answers and pulls his arm out of Harry’s grasp. 

Harry doesn’t try to stop him. But there’s this sudden pang in his chest, this rare flare of envy and longing. Just for a moment, he wishes for Louis to be his. He wishes he could have what so many other people often have — a soulmate they like, a soulmate they fall in love with. He wishes that Louis liked him, wishes that he wanted Louis so that things didn’t have to be so complicated. Louis doesn’t like him, though. And Harry doesn’t want Louis. Wanting Louis might kill him, he thinks, but Louis has somehow made a place for himself in Harry’s very bones. Harry doesn’t know how to get him out. 

With trembling legs, Harry walks over to Malachi and leans against the horse, who does nothing to acknowledge Harry. They have a strange relationship that doesn’t extend past acquaintances. Malachi has made it clear more than once that he isn’t impressed with Harry and Harry knows when to stop pushing his luck with an animal. They either like you or they don’t. He feels warm, though. Malachi is exuding heat and Harry lets it seem into him with closed eyes. 

_“I have nothing to stay for.”_

Despite knowing everything, Louis doesn’t think Harry is anything to stay for. 

_You didn’t give him a reason to stay._

Harry thinks about asking Niall — begging Niall, even — if that means Louis will stay. But he knows it’s futile. Niall isn’t going to do him any favors right now and a part of him knows that he doesn’t deserve it, either. He wonders again how Louis knows. What is it about him that makes him able to resist Harry’s compulsion? He has so many questions and no one to give him any answers, so Harry just stands there next to Malachi and waits for Louis to come back. 

▴▴▴

It’s a while before anyone comes into the stables and when it happens, it’s a whole slew of guards at once. Harry knows some of them. Alfieri is one of them and Harry’s blood runs hot in his veins as he watches the man from Darling’s stall. He remembers Louis’ bloodsoaked shirt, remembers the way his wounds dragged open again because of that man. Harry curls his fingers into Darling’s silky mane. It’s when Harry spots Louis trailing after Alfieri towards the same horse that it suddenly clicks and he moves. 

When Harry makes it to Malachi’s stall, he catches the tail end of Alfieri’s sentence: “...So get yourself another horse, Tomlinson.” 

“You know damn well he’s mine,” Louis bites back, none of that restraint in his voice that Harry has gotten quite used to hearing. 

“Is he now? Don’t see your name etched into his hair anywhere. He’s as much mine as he is yours.”

“You know —”

“What do I know, huh? What do I know? That you somehow have the prince wrapped around your tiny little pinky? Yeah. I know. I’m not the fucking prince, though. Go find another horse, you traitorous bastard.”

That’s all Harry can listen to quietly. Before he can stop himself or think anything, he’s barging into the small space with hazy red surrounding the edges of his vision. Louis and Alfieri both watch, former simply wary and the latter caught off guard. “Get out of here,” Harry says as calmly as he can manage to the guard. “Step away from the horse and get the fuck out here. I told you to stay _away_ from me.” 

“Sir...”

Harry clenches his fist. _Don’t shout, don’t shout, don’t shout_ — “That is not your horse. Get away from him.” 

Alfieri takes several steps back from Malachi; the seems slightly anxious by the commotion around him. He turns his head to Louis, who easily lets himself be backed into the wall as Malachi noses at his neck. One of Louis’ hands comes up to stroke the horse’s dark mane. 

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear earlier,” Harry addresses the other man. “When I said I don’t want you near me, I meant it. I don’t want you anywhere near _anything_ that is mine. He,” Harry points to Louis, “is mine. Don’t touch him. Don’t speak to him. Don’t even fucking look at him. Is that understood?” 

Alfieri mumbles a _Yes, Your Highness,_ his eyes trained somewhere near his feet. Harry waits for him to leave, but the man stays stood where he is and Harry closes his eyes for just a moment and inhales deeply. He doesn’t want to snap. He doesn’t want to lose control more than he already has. “I need you to leave now,” Harry says. “Whatever orders Niall gave you, tell him they’re null and void. You’re not going to be within a hundred feet of Louis.” 

When he’s gone, Harry’s not quite sure what he’s expecting from Louis. Not thanks, exactly, because Louis didn’t ask him to do anything, but maybe some acknowledgment. Maybe he’s expecting just a little tiny bit of appreciation for Harry standing up for him because, well, it doesn’t happen a lot. In fact, this _doesn’t_ happen. Harry doesn’t jump into arguments between guards because he doesn’t have a vested interest in any of their dynamics. So, yes, he’s expecting _something,_ but it certainly isn’t the contempt he sees on Louis’ face. 

He doesn’t get a chance to ask what he’s done to upset Louis now because Louis beats him to it. He doesn’t move from where he is when he says, not loudly but clearly, “You need to stop speaking for me. Does your ego inflate every time you assert yourself over me?” 

_What?_

Louis moves then, stepping away from the wall and walking towards Harry. He’s still wearing Harry’s yellow shirt and something about it, coupled with the intensity of Louis’ gaze, makes Harry’s heart lurch almost violently. He needs something to hold on to, but there’s nothing. His knees feel weak. 

Louis’ standing in front of him, a hair’s breadth away, and his knees feel weak. He can smell his own scent on Louis.

“I am not _yours,”_ Louis says, softly. 

His eyes flicker. They waver from Harry’s, fall towards Harry’s mouth, come back up. 

Harry feels out of breath. 

“I don’t _want_ to be yours,” Louis says, still so soft. “You have no claim over me. The sooner you realize that, the better. I am not a charity case. I am nothing to you. Stop acting like my savior. Stop acting like I belong to you. Please.” 

“I was just trying to help,” Harry says feebly, and it’s strange. It’s pathetic, the way he loses all semblance of control around Louis, the way he feels so _weak._

“What do you want?” Louis asks and it throws Harry off this rhythm. He doesn’t know what that means. “What do you _want?_ You keep embarrassing me like you’ve got some personal agenda and I would just like to know what you want.” 

Harry doesn’t know what that _means,_ so he simply settles on the truth. “I just wanted to help.” 

“You can help me by leaving me alone,” Louis bites, his eyes sharp. “And it might not make a lot of sense to you, but treating people like they’re subservient to you isn’t exactly the best way to _help,_ Your Highness.” 

Harry isn’t sure what stings more, Louis’ unimpressed tone or the title he uses to address Harry. Now that he knows what his name sounds like falling from Louis’ mouth, anything else just feels _wrong._ He doesn’t say it, though. Something tells him that would just lead to another unproductive spat, so he just recalls the way Louis said his name earlier. He doesn’t understand why it means so much to him, but something about it has just coiled around Harry. He doesn’t want Louis to use formalities. He should, but he doesn’t. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it surprises him. From the look on Louis’ face, he isn’t alone. He doesn’t know what he’s sorry for, exactly. Clearly, he’s done and said a lot to get under Louis’ skin, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. He needs to talk to Niall, or maybe his mother. He catches Louis staring at him, his eyes roaming over Harry’s face and _why_ does it feel like they keep lingering on Harry’s mouth? But Louis doesn’t say anything. 

“I’ll just let you be,” Harry tells him and leaves without another word. 

▴▴▴

The palace is alive. 

There’s a buzz in the air that’s been missing since Gemma disappeared, like she took all the liveliness of the place with her. Harry finds everyone of importance in the council room, some seated and some pacing, some standing anxiously still in various spots. Harry sees his mother standing by a window, her back turned to everyone. He makes his way to her, nodding at the foreign king and queen. They do a believable job of looking distraught, he thinks, given that they orchestrated this whole debacle. Harry steps up right behind his mother and puts a hand on her shoulder. She turns, her eyes full of emotion, and she says, _“Oh, love,”_ and leans into Harry, her cheek pressed into his chest. 

Harry kisses her head. “Hi, Mum.” 

“They know where Gemma is,” she breathes into his chest. Harry’s not sure if he heard her correctly, but then she looks up at him with tearful eyes and says, “They know where she is.” 

Harry looks from his mother to everyone else in the room and it’s hard to tell how people feel. His mother looks happy in that bittersweet, wary manner, but everyone else... Merida is here, sitting next to her mother — or aunt, Harry isn’t sure what to think — but she isn’t paying attention to him. She’s more focused on the velvet table top in front of her. King Francis and Queen Giovanna look like they’re trying to be happy, but can’t quite manage it. Then again, though, it could just be that Harry knows how they really feel. They surely don’t want Gemma to be found. He wonders what they’re playing at, but then he decides he doesn’t really care. Whatever they could’ve done, they’ve already done it. All that’s left to do is bring Gemma back and get these leeches far, far away from his home and his family. Still, he wonders. It takes a moment, but it hits him that they shouldn’t know that Gemma’s location has been found. It takes another moment for him to realize that the king and queen look far too relaxed for two people who should be fearing for their lives in foreign territory. 

_They don’t know._

They don’t know that their ploy has been disclosed. They must think Gemma has been found somewhere else, that Niall has been misled and that they are still safe. That has to be the case, because why else would they sit here like nothing in their plan is amiss? They may be smart, but Niall is smarter. Harry loves him so much. 

“Where is she?” Harry asks his mother, playing along with whatever ruse she must surely be putting up. 

“She was spotted in Eroda,” Anne says, no hint of deception in her voice or on her face. There’s only relief. _Eroda._ That’s not where Gemma is. “Captain Horan is putting together a group of men that will travel there and bring back our Gem. He received word during the night, somehow. A parcel was delivered for him. Some of our best men will be leaving shortly.” 

Once again, Harry doesn’t know what has been decided in his absence and what role everyone is playing, but he thinks it’s better for him to act like he hasn’t a clue what’s going on. It’s not difficult to do, considering he _doesn’t_ know what’s going on, but he decides to keep his mouth shut about what he does know. 

“I want to go, too. I want to see her.” 

“No, absolutely not, Harry. You can’t put yourself at risk like that.”

“She’s my _sister.”_

“Yes, and you’re my son. I can’t have you in danger, love.” 

Harry sighs. He knows he can’t go. He’s certainly not going to Eroda, but he can’t go to Novac, either. Louis asked to be left alone. The least Harry can do is give him the space he wants, at _least_ for the duration of this trip. They can figure out how to end their... situation when Louis returns. It tugs at him, then, the reality of what he wants to do. He has read a little bit about it in passing, never because he sought it out, but severing a soulmate bond isn’t commonplace. People rarely do it and Harry can’t remember when the last instance of it was. Still, from what he remembers, he knows it isn’t easy to do. There’s a ritual involved and it’s emotionally taxing, but it is what it is. He’ll do what he needs to do to cut himself from Louis. But the thought of _after_ hits him: when he isn’t connected to Louis this way, when he won’t feel the pain Louis feels, when Louis won’t be _his_ the way he is now. 

_“I don’t want to be yours,”_ Louis’ voice comes back to him. 

It’s the best thing to do, really, for the both of them. It’s healthy. 

Queen Giovanna interrupts them at that moment, talking about how she wants to send some of her guards with the search party, as well. Harry wants to roll his eyes, but he can’t give himself away and he’s a terrible liar, honestly, so he opts to leave the room. He doesn’t want to ruin whatever plan his mother and Niall have come up with, so he excuses himself from the council room and roams the halls of his home. There are guards interspersed every here and there, most of them smiling more easily than they have since the night of Gemma’s party. Harry misses her, deeply, so instead of aimlessly walking around the palace and wondering what his dear mother and best friend could be trying to do, he makes his way to Gemma’s rooms. He hasn’t been there since that night, the hallway is heavily guarded, but he misses her so very much. If she was here, she’d know exactly what to do about Louis. Louis would like her, he thinks. Everyone likes Gemma. From the way Louis has spoken about her so far, Harry gets the sense that he already adores her like everyone else does. 

No one tries to stop Harry when he pushes open the door. 

Her room is a bit like how it always is: white with hints of gold and pink scattered throughout, cleany and tiny and immaculate. But it feels hollow, too, like it’s missing something vital. Like it’s missing its essence. It’s dimly lit, which isn’t normal; Gemma always likes to keep her rooms bright and inviting. It makes Harry miss her that much more and he doesn’t hesitate to crawl into her bed. He knows in his heart that she’s alright, that she’ll be home soon, but he suddenly misses her so fiercely. If she saw him in her bed like this, she’d roll her eyes and tell him to find his own room, and it would make him laugh because she’s a hypocrite who sometimes falls asleep in Harry’s room, cuddled up to Harry’s dog. He wonders where Primrose is right now. And Kat. And all his lovelies. But he’s too tired to search the palace for them. They’ll come to him when they want him. 

Harry takes a moment to look around the room. The lights are dimmer and the colors look muted, but it’s also different very different from the last time he was here. He knows, he just _knows_ in his bones that he can point the exact spot he found Nadia’s body on the marble floor. He remembers the exact pattern of the blood spatters marring the white marble. He remembers the signs of struggle he said that night. All of that is gone. It makes him nearly jump of Gemma’s bed. He can’t _believe_ he didn’t think of this earlier. How stupid. How utterly thoughtless and _stupid_ of him to overlook such an important detail. Harry leaves the rooms and rushes down to the infirmary because he needs to see Arfa _right now._ When he gets there, though, she isn’t in the room. Someone else is there, a replacement medic, whom Harry doesn’t know well. He asks him where Arfa is and learns that she must be in the servants quarters or “somewhere else.” Helpful. The servants quarters aren’t exactly small, but Harry finds her in her own room. 

“Your Highness,” Arfa greets him, almost bowing, and Harry instinctively reaches out to stop her. He doesn’t want this form her, he never has. He just wants to be her friend. She’s one of the only workers in the palace close to Harry's age and he just really wants to befriend her. Maybe this is a chance. 

“Call me Harry. Please. For a little while, at least.” 

“Okay...” she says. Then: “Harry?” It’s like she’s testing the name and Harry wants to laugh because it’s just... so endearing. 

“That’s wonderful.” 

Her cheeks turn pink. “How can I help you?” 

“Well,” Harry starts. “Is it alright if I come inside? Or you can come with me?” 

“Where to?” she asks. 

“Uhm.” He hasn’t thought that far. It's too cold to walk around outside and he doesn’t really want to go out right now. “Let’s look at some rooms?” 

“Okay,” she says again with that same uncertainty in her voice. “Let me just — yes, of course.” But she doesn’t sound like she’s happy about it and, well, Harry isn’t totally clueless. 

“It’s okay if you’re busy,” he tells her. He’s not exactly in a hurry, per se. Not _really._

“No, I’m just...” she blushes again, the apples of her cheeks turning red this time and — oh. _Oh._ Harry bites back his grin. “I’m just waiting for someone,” Arfa says. 

“Someone,” Harry repeats. Arfa looks at him, properly meeting his eyes for maybe the first time ever. He thinks she knows that he knows, but how can she? He smiles at her politely, but in a way that says, _yes, I know._ “I’ll just wait inside if you’re okay with that? Or do you want me to come back?” 

Arfa just stares at him, her face red, and she doesn’t really say anything. It’s amusing, actually, to see her like this. Harry is always in awe of her; the way she works, the way she carries herself — it’s all with such grace and such confidence and Harry admires that about her. But right now she’s nothing but flustered and it is highly amusing for Harry. 

“I promise I won’t make a sound,” Harry says, still standing at her door. “He’ll never know I’m here and then I can torment him.” 

“How do you —” 

“I know everything, darling,” Harry lies through his teeth, but it’s so fun. This is the most fun he’s had in ages. 

Arfa visibly hesitates for a moment but then grabs Harry’s wrist and pulls him inside her room. “Right, so. Harry,” she says and it still sounds like a test. It’s like his name is a hardship for people to say. Harry tried not to take it personally. “You can stay in the bathroom, please. Come out when he’s gone.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Harry takes a moment to himself to look around the room. It’s not small — none of the servants rooms are _small,_ per se — but it’s obviously not on the level of grandiosity as Harry’s room, or even Niall’s. There’s a bed situated next to a wall, a desk across from it and adjacent to a bookshelf. There are a _lot_ of books and Harry wonders what they’re all about, but he doesn’t go closer to look. An opened book lays atop the desk, with a quill resting between the pages and a piece of parchment next to it. There’s a built in bathroom, just like most other rooms in the palace. It’s a cozy little spot for one girl, Harry thinks. 

“Could you...” 

Arfa’s looking at him almost tentatively and gestures to the adjoining bathroom. Wordlessly, Harry takes a few steps and hides himself in the small room, away from anyone who might enter the bedroom. Sure enough, only a minute or so passes before there’s a knock at Arfa’s door and there’s the telltale sign of someone walking in. Niall’s footsteps aren’t heavy, but they aren’t silent, either. 

“Hey,” he hears Niall say, softly, in a voice that Harry hasn’t heard before. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be here. 

“Hey, you,” comes Arfa’s voice. “Leaving?”

“Yeah, everyone’s about ready. I wanted to say goodbye.” 

There’s a pause, then a very quiet _thud._ Then he hears Arfa again. “Please be careful. Don’t get yourself hurt again.” 

“It was one time, angel.” 

“I know. But just... can you just be careful? I don’t trust them and I don’t want you hurt.” 

“I’ll be careful.” 

Harry feels like he’s intruding. He’s definitely intruding. 

There’s another moment of quiet and Harry wishes he could disappear, but he’s stuck behind this door while his best friend is probably kissing his... Harry doesn’t know what they are, but he’s never heard Niall sound like this. 

Niall’s voice jars him when he says, “Come out, Harry, you prick.” 

A bit startled, Harry walks out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Niall and Arfa are standing pressed together, Niall’s arms wound around her from behind. He looks at Harry with half a smirk, like he’s saying, _yeah, I know what you were up to._

“Hello, Captain,” Harry mock salutes him. 

“You’re a massive pain in the ass, you know that?” Niall throws back. Harry can tell Arfa’s trying not to laugh. 

“How did you know I’m here?” 

“Between the two of us? Certain people’s loyalties lay with me.” 

Harry looks at Arfa, who’s looking back at him... confidently. There’s a change in her demeanor from before, when she would barely even glance in Harry’s direction assertively. It feels strangely nice, Harry thinks. “You’re a traitor, Arfa.” 

“No, I’m just loyal to my friends.” 

“Is that what you two are? Friends?” 

That gets rid of Niall’s smirk altogether. Instead, there’s a hint of pink in his cheeks. “Mind your own business, Harry,” he huffs and it makes Harry laugh. “How did you even know? Why are you here?” 

“So many questions, Captain. Aren’t you running late?”

“They won’t leave without me.” 

“Where, exactly, are you going?” Harry asks. He still doesn’t know what this elaborate plan of theirs is. He knows he can trust Niall’s judgment, but that is _all_ he knows. A few solid details would be nice to have. 

“Well...” Niall’s arms tighten visibly around Arfa and she leans back into him. Something in Harry aches dully at the movement. “Witch Queen has decided that she doesn’t trust us, and that’s very smart of her, so she’s sending a group of her men with us. They want to ‘help,’ she said. Bullshit. She just wants to keep tabs on us.” 

“So, what? You can’t take them to Gemma or go on a wild goose hunt.” 

Niall grins at that. “I’ve already sent people to Gemma.” At the confusion that is surely spreading across Harry’s face, Niall says, “I did that before I told anyone anything. Couldn’t have them looking into it. They believe Gemma is in Eroda, so that’s where I’ll take the witch’s men and throw them off, act like we were given a false lead. Come back home just in time for Gemma to get here.” 

Harry knows things are missing from that explanation. He knows there are gaps and he knows he should ask for clarification, but his mind has latched onto one specific thing Niall said. “You aren’t going to get Gemma?” 

Niall shakes his head. “No, it’s too suspicious if I disappear. I handpicked who went, so don’t fret about that. They’ll do their job right.” 

“No, I don’t —” That isn’t what Harry is worried about. He _knows_ he can trust Niall’s judgment to bring his sister home safely. He knows that. He’s not worried about that part. “You sent Louis alone with those guards? After everything that’s happened to him here?” 

Niall blinks at that, eyes Harry carefully. So does Arfa. “They aren’t monsters, Harry, and Louis knows them. He wanted to go.” 

Harry gapes at him. “Do you _remember_ this morning? He’s probably still bleeding, Niall. He might know them, but they don’t exactly care for him anymore. He’s still a traitor in their eyes.”

“I reckon he can stand his own. He’s a big boy.” 

Harry wants to argue, wants Niall to go with Louis or call Louis back, but he doesn’t know how to ask for that. _Louis wanted to go. He asked you to leave him alone._ And, yes, Harry said he’d do exactly that and, yes, Harry walked away then, but how can he just... let Louis be alone with those men when there’s no guarantee of his safety? Harry just wants him to be safe, wants him to stop bleeding and hurting, but he doesn’t know how to ask Niall to make sure of any of that. 

_“Treating people like they’re subservient to you isn’t exactly the best way to help,”_ Louis’ voice comes back to him and it’s frustrating. It is so _frustrating_ how he manages to twist every good thing Harry tries to do. 

But a part of Harry wonders, _isn’t he subservient? I’m the crown prince and he isn’t._

That thought is immediately discarded when he remembers the way Louis said his name, the way there was something so _right_ about it, the way Louis has never acted like he’s less than Harry in his worth. There’s a class difference between them, sure, but Louis has balanced precariously on that fine line since the first moment Harry spoke to him. 

“I’ll get going,” Niall’s voice cuts through his musings. He looks at Harry and then gazes down at Arfa.“Look out for each other, alright? I won’t be gone too long, but for the love of all that is holy, don’t do anything reckless when I’m not here.” He pulls Arfa into a hug and kisses her and Harry once again feels like he shouldn’t be here, but then Niall steps back and blows a kiss to Harry. “Be nice, be friends,” he says and then he’s gone. 

Harry and Arfa stare at each other from across the small room and Harry smiles. “Friends?” 

Arfa smiles back, but it doesn’t look entirely genuine. “I’m Louis’ friend, so,” she says and lets her words dissolve around her. 

That’s news to Harry, though. He didn’t know Louis has _friends_ in the palace, let alone that Arfa is one of them. Is that why Niall always seems to know just a little bit more than he should? Is that why both she and Louis seem so comfortable with each other every time Harry has seen them together? This is all new information and Harry’s not entirely sure how he feels about it. How is she “friends” with Niall and friends with Louis, but always shies away from talking to Harry? He’s an easy enough person to talk to. 

“Does that put us in a pickle?” he asks. “As it would turn out, Louis doesn’t want to be _my_ friend because, apparently, he hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Arfa says and looks like she wants to say more, but abruptly closes her mouth. Strange. “But I’m not going to spill his secrets.” 

“He has secrets?”

“Who doesn’t?”

Harry cocks his head, wondering what to make of that. What does she possible know? It can’t be much, but then again, it could be anything. It isn’t rare for people to keep Harry in the dark about many, many things. Who knows what a medic and a guard could keep from him? 

“Is it about Gemma?” he asks, no humor in his voice now. 

Arfa shakes her head. “No. I told Niall everything I knew about that. So did Louis.” 

And Harry knows she’s telling the truth. It’s in the way her eyes are darker now, maybe a little pinched and a little full of sorrow. It’s in the way her voice is steady, but laced with disappointment or anger or maybe both. 

“Thank you,” Harry tells her. 

“You’re welcome, Harry.” 

And, maybe, this is a compromise. Harry doesn’t know what they are right now. He knows they aren’t friends, not yet, but they could be. If he tries hard enough, he knows he can find a good, loyal friend in Arfa. Growing up, _trying_ for friendship wasn’t something he had to do. Everyone wanted to be his friend. Everyone wanted to be around him. People still always want to be around him, but he doesn’t always return the sentiment anymore. It’s nice to have everyone’s attention on him when he’s in the room, but they can all be a bit too much sometimes. All the elites and the socialites, they can all be a bit too much. It’s nicer to have people like Niall around him. 

▴▴▴

He spends the rest of the day with Arfa. 

They aren’t alone, exactly, as it takes a fair number of people to arrange and rearrange two rooms for a princess, but as far as Harry I’m concerned, this is his time with Arfa. A lot of it passes in companionable silence, excerpt for all the times they have to communicate and discuss what Gemma’s new room should look like. Harry’s her brother, yes, but Arfa knows her quite well, too. Like Niall knows Harry almost inside and out, Arfa knows things about Gemma that Harry would never be able to guess — the linens she likes best, the exact way she likes her room lit and which windows she likes to sit by in the evenings or the flowers she’s partial to. When she isn’t tending to someone’s wounds or just being a healer, Arfa is different. Helping Harry transfer Gemma’s clothes and other things, she’s just a girl looking out for her friend. Harry has the sobering realization that Arfa must be missing Gemma, too. 

“Arfa?” When she looks away from the grey gown she’s hanging in Gemma’s new armoire, Harry asks, “Earlier when you said you told Niall everything you know about Gemma... what did that mean, exactly?” 

Something dark crosses her soft features, like a heavy cloud eclipsing the sun on a bright day. “I think it may have been my fault,” she says in a quiet voice, almost as though she’s ashamed of uttering the words. “All of this, it’s so ridiculous and it shouldn’t have happened. Niall keeps saying it shouldn’t have happened, so I keep thinking that it’s my fault.” She stops speaking and Harry’s not quite sure he’s following, but he doesn’t push her. After a moment, Arfa speaks up again. “That day, someone asked me for some tonics and other things. It wasn’t like... it didn’t seem like an emergency, you know? I didn’t think someone was seriously hurt or in dire pain. I was a bit distracted because everything was so busy, I was so happy. Gemma was over the moon and I was just so happy for her. I wasn’t as focused as I should have been. I gave a few things to someone, some really strong things. If that’s what they used to lace the guards’ drinks, then it’s my fault. Makes sense why a lot of them don’t remember everything from the night. I did this.” 

Harry doesn’t know how to respond. He knows Arfa would never do anything to intentionally harm his family, he knows she cares too much, but he doesn’t know what to say to all that. Niall hasn’t mentioned any of this to him, so he must not think this is on Arfa — or is that his feelings clouding his judgement? No, he thinks, Niall isn’t like that. Regardless of how much he cares and what he feels for Arfa, he would never overlook her mistakes if they put Gemma’s life at risk. There has to be another explanation. 

“What did Niall say?” he asks. 

Arfa frowns. “I can’t tell if he’s looking out for me or what, but he doesn’t think they used what I gave them. He thinks that may have been a distraction or some sort of setup, and that using the things I gave them would give them away easily. They something of their own that we wouldn’t know immediately.” 

In a way, that makes sense. Using a drug taken from Arfa to render an entire floor of guards would be too on the nose and their ruse would fall apart. 

“It’s impossible to know now, though,” Arfa keeps saying, her voice a little faraway. “It took me so long to realize and everything had been cleaned by then. It’s been eating at me.”

There’s a moment of quiet in which Arfa fusses with the clothes she hung in the armoire, smoothing out this sleeve and that hem. It’s obvious that she’s blaming herself for the whole incident, even though there is no way she could’ve possibly known about any of it. How would she have ever guessed that Gemma’s in-laws would be plotting to kidnap her? As far as Harry can remember, there were never any red flags. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” he tells Arfa. She jumps a little in place, like she’s startled by the sound of his voice. “This didn’t happen because of you, Arfa. You should know that.” She doesn’t look convinced. There’s still that dark shadow on her face that’s very uncharacteristic of Arfa. “Hey, I mean it. This is not on you. And Gemma’s coming back.” 

It takes a slow moment, but then a small, speculative smile settles on her face. “Harry,” she says, and it’s hesitant. His name coming from her mouth still sounds somewhat cautious, balanced on a fine line somewhere between uncertainty and daring. “Can I ask you something? It might be out of line, but I’m just curious.”

Harry gives her a real smile. “We’re trying this new friendship thing, so go on. Ask me.”

She bites her lip and Harry thinks he’d be able to touch the nervousness rolling off of her if he only reached out. As it is, he stays where he is and Arfa lifts her eyes to his, and asks, “How come... How is it that you know the right thing to say to everyone else, but when it’s Louis, you always botch it?” 

Harry has to blink several times. He waits for her to say something, just in case that isn’t what she meant to ask him, but she keeps looking at him in that genuinely curious way, and, well. That’s not what Harry was expecting her to ask. He doesn’t know why he always says the wrong thing to Louis and he doesn’t know _why_ it’s the wrong thing to begin with, and he certainly doesn’t know why Arfa knows what he’s been saying to Louis. 

“I — how do you know what I’ve said to him? What do you know?” If he sounds on the edge of hysterical, that’s neither here nor there. 

Arfa’s tentative smile grows just a tad wider. “I’m Louis’ friend, remember? I know things.” 

And, yeah, Harry knows that much now. He knows Louis and Arfa are friends, but he didn’t realize they’re close enough for Louis to be sharing... whatever he’s shared with Arfa. 

“I don’t know,” Harry sighs finally, because it’s the only thing he can really give her. Honesty. “I know he doesn’t like anything I say, but I don’t know why. I don't understand why he hates me so much.” 

“Louis doesn’t hate you, Harry. He...” She trails off, diverts her eyes away from Harry’s quickly in a way that makes her look jittery. “Louis is so... he’s just really angry with you. But he doesn’t hate you.” 

Harry frowns without even meaning to. “What did I do to him?”

It's very clear that Arfa is uncomfortable. She’s wringing her hands together now, eyes focused stubbornly on her own fingers. “You are... I don’t want to be rude, I’m sorry,” she says, and Harry can see the blush in her cheeks even from a distance. “I know you’re not a bad person, Harry, I know that. I’ve seen how you are with people, but with Louis... you do things for him without asking. You speak for him without giving him a chance to do so himself. You don't know him like I do, and maybe that’s part of the problem, but Louis is a very proud person. He’s a very capable person. He just wants to be treated with the respect and dignity you’d give to your equal and I think he deserves it.” She stops, looks back up at Harry. “That’s what he is, isn’t he? And he knows it, too.” 

Harry doesn’t want to admit that that’s how he thought of their situation, but perhaps he did. They _weren’t_ equals, not until Louis called him _Harry_ and unraveled every thread of their precarious relationship. Harry didn’t consider talking _to_ Louis. If he’s being honest, and right now he has to be, he has only ever talked _at_ Louis. Until now, he hasn’t ever asked Louis’ input on anything because he didn’t think it’s needed. 

“I'm just trying to do what’s best for both of us,” he defends himself, and it comes out half hearted. Unconvincing. 

Arfa presses her lips into a thin line. “Include him in the conversation. Don’t make decisions for him.” 

He would respond to that if he knew how, but just then, Arfa’s earlier words catch up to him. “He told you he knows?” 

Something flickers through her eyes. Pity, maybe. Harry hates it. “He’s a smart boy, you know. And a good person. Don’t hurt him like this.” 

That's not an answer to his question and Harry doesn’t know what to do with it. If Louis isn’t fond of Harry, then he doesn’t understand how this could possibly be _hurting_ him — the physical aspect aside. And it's not like Harry’s the one getting bloody hurt every day. It’s Louis. If anyone’s pulled the shorter straw, it’s Harry, because he’s the one who has to suffer alongside Louis. 

“I’m not trying to hurt him,” he argues. That has never been his intention. Everything he’s said and done so far has been to cut both of their pain in half. 

“I didn’t say that,” Arfa returns. “Just talk to him.” 

And that’s their problem, isn’t it? They don’t know how to talk to each other and Harry isn’t sure how much of that is his fault. He can try harder, though. He knows he can. He’s good with people. Everyone _likes_ him. There’s never been any reason for people to hate him — or even dislike him. He’s got good manners. He’s charming. He’s a good person. He knows this. So why is it so hard for Louis to like him? 

“You don’t get it,” Harry murmurs and it’s only when the words are floating in the distance between them that he realizes he doesn’t know if that’s true. “Are you — I mean, are you and Niall —”

Arfa shakes her head, a strange expression on her face that Harry can’t decipher. “I just care about him a lot,” she says, like it’s that simple. Like that’s all there is to it. And maybe it is. 

In the last few years, Harry has had a lot of time to read up on soulmate bonds. He used to spend hours holed up in the library, scouring page after page, looking for anything that explained this part of him. They’re not as rare as people think, but they’re also not very common. He knows Niall hasn’t felt anything. Last time they spoke, Niall seemed quite confident about not having a soulmate. That isn’t set in stone, though. No one is absolutely certain about how the connection is triggered, but Harry has read more than one theory. Some say that two people need to bond before their souls do; or, in other words, their _hearts_ need to sync up with one another before their souls merge. Others say that two souls simply need to “see” or“interact” with each other once in order to recognize one another. It could be walking down the same street or having a conversation. And some say that soulmates are created from the same soul. It’s not a widely accepted idea, but it’s there in the literature. People _share_ souls — and that’s why severing the bond is almost unheard of. 

He does wonder if Niall and Arfa belong in the first group of people — if their hearts needs to align before their souls do. He wonders if that’s something they _want._ He knows sometimes Niall envies him, but he doesn’t know how deep that feeling runs. How genuine it is. 

“Do you want it?” he asks Arfa. He might be out of line here, considering they’re not at all close, but oh well. They haven’t gone about anything conventionally. 

She doesn’t look offended, though. “I don’t know,” she muses, words slow and unsure. “It’s always been, like, an attractive idea, you know? Like in my head, it always sounded so romantic to have a soulmate, to have someone who shares such an intimate experience with you. But I don't know now.” As she talks, an unknowing smile softens her face. “Niall is... a lot sometimes. You know? I don’t know if I want to feel all that, all the time.” 

Niall is a lot. Harry knows how much time he spends training and teaching others on a normal day and how much time he spends honing his own skills. It's not uncommon for him to be covered in bruises every now and then as a result. Harry understands all too well what Arfa means. 

“Harry?”

“Yes?” 

“Did Niall... Did he tell you about us?” Arfa questions hesitantly, like she’s not sure if it's allowed. That’s something they need to work on. 

But Harry shakes his head no. “He hasn’t said a word about it yet, but I saw you two the other night. Haven’t had a chance to grill him about it.”

That pulls a small chuckle out of her. “It’s not his fault, I think he actually wanted to tell you,” she says. “I’ve been nervous about it, so I asked him to wait a bit. Just a little while longer.”

That’s new. Niall usually does what he wants when he wants to. “How long has this been happening? What _is_ this?” 

At that, Arfa’s cheeks flush. “About three months, almost.” 

Harry can’t help but raise his eyebrows. “Three _months?”_

“Remember he dislocated his shoulder a while back? And messed up his ankle?” Harry nods. “It just sort of happened then, really. He was down in the infirmary often when it was bad and kept coming even when he didn’t need to. And it just happened.” 

Harry thinks about that for a moment. He knows what she’s talking about; Niall used to spend a lot of time visiting the infirmary and he’d mention Arfa every once in a blue moon. It wasn’t anything spectacular, just something Arfa told him or something he learned about medicine that Harry wasn’t interested in. Never once did he let on that he had feelings for the girl. He’s clever that way. He knows how to mask his feelings in a way Harry has never been able to. Niall is adept at handling his emotions, while Harry simply chokes on them and makes a blunder of everything. 

Arfa closes the armoire and walks over to the bed, hesitates for a moment before sitting down next to Harry. They’re not touching, but she’s much closer than she would’ve been a day ago. 

“You have to talk to Louis. I didn’t tell you this, but apologizing to him will go a long way,” she says. 

“Apologizing for what?” Harry asks. 

Arfa deadpans. “Figure that one out yourself. And I didn’t tell you this, either, but Niall found the person you’re looking for.” 

“Who?” 

“Come on, Your Highness. Stay on top of your own needs.” 

And if it were another servant speaking to him like this, Harry might have snapped at them and demanded for clear answers, but right now he just laughs. He doesn’t know who she means, but he doesn’t press her about it. He’ll ask Niall when this whole mess gets cleared. For now, he needs more flowers for his sister. 

“You want to find some lilies with me?” 

Arfa smiles again. “Yes,” she says, and it’s soft. “Let’s welcome her home properly.”

▴▴▴

The rest of the day passes miserably slow. Harry spends some time in the library, finding books that discuss soulmates and soulbonds — more specifically, how to sever them. He enjoys being in the library. He prefers his own personal (and much smaller) library set up in the corner of his room, full of books he can recite word for word now. There is a comfort in that. So he takes the books he wants from the master library and goes back to his room. It’s empty when he gets there, but only a few minutes pass before Prim finds him. She has a way of knowing where he is whenever she wants to be with him and it melts his heart. 

“Hi, baby,” he coos as Prim jumps onto his chest and licks at his face. With her soft weight on top of him, he almost feels normal. It’s almost possible to pretend that nothing is wrong. It’s not, though. As he lays in his bed, his thoughts wander to Gemma. He misses her so fiercely. It’s been an entire week since he last saw her and there’s nothing he wants more than to hug her again. He trusts Niall, knows that his best friend will do right by everyone and get Gemma home safely, but the anxiety of it all eats at him. He wonders what she’s eaten in the last week, how much she’s been able to sleep. If she and Liam are together, or if she’s in complete solitary. Gemma isn’t someone who enjoys too much alone time, she’s usually around someone else, and the thought of her being so lonely for so long kills Harry. He has half a mind to jump out of bed and throw the king and queen of Novac out on their asses, but he knows he can’t. No matter how much he wants to, he can’t compromise whatever his mother has in mind. When it comes to exacting revenge for Gemma’s kidnapping, there’s no one he trusts more than the queen of Delea. 

A little more patience and Gemma will be back.

On their own accord, his thoughts get tangled in Louis. The things he said to Harry, the way he looked at Harry, the way he said Harry’s name. It makes his skin feel hot and cold at once. He’s not _Harry_ to everyone, he’s the crown prince. Louis decided to call him _Harry_ without being asked to. It makes Harry shiver and something unfamiliar curls in his belly. It’s not entirely unfamiliar, though. Harry felt it when he heard Louis say his name out loud — something flutteringly light that somehow makes his heart beat just a little faster. He feels it now when he thinks about the way Louis asked him, _“What do_ _you want?”_ It makes his blood hum in a tone he doesn’t recognize. 

He wonders if Louis is okay, if he’s safe. He hasn’t felt anything so far, so that has to mean something good. It has to. If only he could bring Louis back and keep him here _safe_ from everything... 

He thinks about what Arfa said to him. _“Include him in the conversation. Don’t make decisions for him.”_ She told him to apologize to Louis. She told him Niall has found the person Harry’s looking for. He’s tired and his mind feels hazy with the details of all that has happened, but suddenly, everything falls into place. 

Niall knows who can sever the bond. 

Arfa wants Harry to talk to Louis about it. 

Niall told Arfa about Harry wanting to break the bond. 

Louis told Arfa about Harry wanting to break the bond without asking him. 

It’s like puzzle pieces slotting together and it makes Harry go cold all over, makes his palms go clammy. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers the fact that he’s still wearing Louis’ cotton top. It’s enough to make him crawl out of his bed and make his way to his wardrobe for clean clothes. Prim follows his ragged steps as he pulls Louis’ shirt over his head and pulls out a clean, unstained blouse without looking — it’s blue. It’s blue and it reminds Harry of Louis’ eyes so he throws it back and yanks out another one. Lilac. That’s good. He doesn’t want anything of Louis’ on his body right now. 

He wants a bath. Somehow, it feels like Louis is under his very skin and it makes him feel hot and cold all over. It makes him itch. 

So he does just that — gets in the bath and tries to forget everything else for a little while. 

▴

He falls asleep in the bath. A guard has to come inside to make sure he isn’t dead and that’s the only reason he eats dinner. 

He sits at the dinner table with his mother, Liam’s parents, and Liam’s sister turned cousin. It takes everything in him to not curse out Giovanna and Francis, so Harry keeps his focus on his favorite person in the room. Merida keeps him distracted enough with useless chitchat, but Harry doesn’t pay much attention. 

When Anne retires to her chambers for the night, Harry follows. She doesn’t say anything for a while, but when Harry is still there after she’s gotten in bed and Harry is hovering by one of the windows, she asks, “What’s wrong, darling?”

And Harry says, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.” 

Anne pats the space beside her. “Come sit. I’m here to listen.” 

So Harry pads over to her without hesitation, all of a sudden feeling like he’s four years old instead of twenty-four. Anne is always a soothing presence, but there’s something immensely comforting about her when she’s just his mum — not the queen. Right now, she’s just his mum. They sit elbow to elbow in her bed, Harry’s head leaning against her shoulder. It’s the safest he has felt in a long time.

“What’s on your mind, dear?” 

_Everything_ is what he wants to say. “Louis,” is what comes out. 

“Niall sent him off to bring Gemma back,” she says. It’s not a statement, but it’s not really a question, either. It sounds more like a confession. 

“I’m worried about him,” Harry tells her. He’s worried _sick_ about Louis, he fell asleep in the fucking bathtub for crying out loud. That doesn’t happen normally. 

Anne puts a gentle hand over his and squeezes. “Oh, honey. Did you get a chance to speak to him properly?” 

_Properly._ “No, not properly,” he admits. He didn’t do anything _properly._ “I think I just... I got too in over my head, I think. I said things to him and told him things and... I demanded things of him without asking him anything.” His voice comes out so, so small and he _feels_ small. That doesn’t happen, either. Harry doesn’t feel small. He isn’t small, so he doesn’t feel it. In every room, he occupies space like a prince ought to. Right now, though, he feels inexplicably insignificant. “I did it all wrong, Mum. I told him I’m going to break the bond and I didn’t ask him what he wants. I didn’t even give him a chance to process anything before I just...” 

Arfa’s voice rings in his head again. _“He just wants to be treated with the respect and dignity you’d give to your equal.... That’s what he is, isn’t he? And he knows it.”_

Harry feels _terrible._ Guilt consumes him in a way it never has before and he feels like he could choke on it. It rises like bile in his throat and the bitter taste of it is unbearable. It feels foreign, but not entirely in an arrogant way. Harry knows arrogance intimately well and this is not it. Some part of this feels... physically alien, like it doesn’t belong to him. Like he’s feeling someone else’s emotion and it’s too much to think about, so he shuts his eyes and gets lost. 

He’s lost in a familiar blue and the only thing keeping him tethered here is his mother’s soft voice coming from next to him. 

“Darling, you have to fix it. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you, but I have faith in my boy. I have faith in myself and I know I’ve raised you with strong morals. You know what the right thing to do is, dear. You simply have to find it within yourself to do it and I know you can.”

All Louis wants is to be treated the way he _should_ be. There’s a moment when the fog lifts and Harry sees the situation more clearly than he ever has. 

Soulmate or no, he owes Louis an apology. 

▴

It’s the middle of the night and Harry is on his way to the kitchen when there’s sudden chaos. It’s not as untamed as it was the night Gemma disappeared, but it reminds Harry of that moment nonetheless. 

First, there’s distant almost fleeting pain that blossoms in his cheekbone and colors the right side of his face. 

_Louis._

Unlike that night, Harry’s initial reaction isn’t anger and confused panic. It’s simply distress. There’s another muted explosion behind his right eye and he braces himself against the wall, willing his heart to stay inside his chest. _Fuck._ This is why he didn’t want Louis going away with those men. This is why. The next blow he’s expecting doesn’t come. Instead, there’s that ghastly fire he’s grown to hate so much. _Louis’ back is hurt._

Harry could kill someone. 

Then there’s muffled shouting coming from near the main entryway of the palace. Without thinking, Harry rushes towards it. _Maybe it’s Louis. Maybe they’re back._ They can’t be, considering it would take them at least an entire day to get to Novac and then another to get back to Delea, but maybe. Maybe Louis came back. He came back that first night, so maybe he’s back now, too. That’s what he did the first time. Harry doesn’t give himself time to think about it. He almost trips towards where he thinks Louis might be, notices the antsy guards in his periphery. They’re more alert than they would usually be, but none of them try to stop him. Harry has to pass to the throne room on his way to the front entrance, but he doesn’t get a chance to do that. 

There, outside the throne room, are Niall and Mali. And more men behind them. But no Louis in sight.

“What...” 

There’s no time for Harry to voice his questions. The second his voice registers with Mali, the man is in Harry’s face, way too fucking close for Harry’s liking. It takes less than a second for someone’s arm to find its way between them and then Mali is pulled away from Harry. Harry recognizes the guard who intervened, but he has no time for gratitude. 

“What is going on?” Harry asks, thoroughly confused. 

Niall still hasn’t moved towards Harry, but Mali is staring at Harry with imploring eyes. “We couldn’t find your sister, Your Highness,” the man says with enough genuine disappointment in his eyes that Harry almost believes him. Luckily, he knows better than to fall for the pathetic attempt at deception. 

“No, _you_ couldn’t find my sister,” Harry returns. Confusion bleeds into Mali’s features. Harry sidesteps him and approaches Niall with a knot in his stomach, but Niall is the picture of ease. “Where is Louis?” 

“Don’t know,” he says breezily and the knot in Harry’s stomach tightens. 

Something isn’t clicking. Harry knows Louis wasn’t with Niall, but why is Niall back so soon? Eroda isn’t very far, but how fast did they travel that they went there and came back in such a short amount of time? He looks at Niall closely, looks for any signs of an altercation or anything that should be alarming and finds nothing. Why the hell is he back without Louis or Gemma? 

As is becoming typical lately, Harry doesn’t have more time to ask more questions. The door to the throne room opens and Niall walks inside without hesitation; Harry follows suit. 

It’s a strange sight to behold in the middle of the night: his mother seated on her throne in a ash grey nightgown, diadem atop her head, cold fury in her eyes. Giovanna and Francis are present, too — sitting far too comfortably near the throne and looking entirely out of place. Harry doesn’t stop to take in the rest of the room and heads directly to his mother. The fire in her eyes dims for a moment when she looks at Harry crouching by her side. 

“What is happening? What’s wrong?” he asks.

“You needn’t be here, love,” she responds as she raises a hand to caress his cheek. “You can go back to sleep.” 

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he says, as if that’s of any importance right now. “Mum, what’s happening?” 

His mother lifts her chin, calls out, “Close the doors,” and silence thick enough to echo a pin dropping falls onto the room. The only other people left are the king and queen of Novac and their Captain of the Guard. Niall stands near the closed doors. 

When Anne stands from the throne, Harry almost doesn’t recognize her. He has never before seen his mother look this formidable. There’s an aura of _red_ surrounding her, like she could engulf anyone in a fire they’d never see coming. It petrifies Harry and he still doesn’t know what happened to have her in this mood. She knows about Gemma’s whereabouts, Harry’s sure. She knows that Giovanna and Francis are the ones who orchestrated everything. Harry’s certain she knows all this. But Gemma isn’t back and he doesn’t know what else happened to make her glow red with rage. 

“My daughter was taken from me a week ago,” she says and her voice bounds off of the velvety walls. She walks down the three steps leading to her throne, towering over everyone else in the room, gown trailing her steps. “What I want to know, Giovanna, is why. What, exactly, were you hoping to accomplish by doing so?” 

Her voice is lightning ricocheting off the ground. 

She comes to a stop by Giovanna, who’s still sitting in her chair and whose face has gone frighteningly pale. She gets up, though — perhaps to compensate for the difference in height between her and the queen in front of her, but it does nothing. Harry can’t see her face, but he knows his mother looks daunting right now. 

“Anne —” 

The muscles in his mother’s back stiffen. “Do not say my name. This is my home, my kingdom, and you’ve done more than enough to spit in my face. You’d best know your place from this moment onwards.”

“But I don’t understand,” Giovanna keeps up her facade with a confused and, remarkably, upset frown.

“Your Majesty,” Francis interjects from where he’s still seated, leaning back in his chair like he has no care in the world. “Are you alright? You seem a little... confused.” And it’s not what he says, it’s how he says it; in a lazy drawl that makes Harry want to leap across the room and knock his head off his neck. There’s something repulsive about his tone and the way he’s looking up at her like she’s lost the plot. 

Anne turns her head towards him. “I don’t recall addressing you, Francis.” 

“You are talking to my wife, though.” 

“Yes, your _wife,_ who has autonomy and can speak for herself. Now be quiet,” Anne snaps. She turns back to Giovanna, who’s wringing her hands together. Harry wishes he was closer to the woman; he’s almost certain he’d be able to smell the fear rolling off of her in waves. “Tell me, Giovanna. Why did you have my daughter kidnapped? And more to my interest — how? I’m mighty curious to know.” 

“Are you... surely, you’re not accusing me of such a thing,” Giovanna says in that same appalled and confused voice that makes Harry want to strangle her. “Why would I ever want to hurt your daughter? _My_ daughter, now, too. Surely, there’s been a grave misunderstanding.” 

Three quick and heavy raps on the door draw everybody’s attention. 

Anne nods wordlessly in Niall’s direction, who opens the door, and there stands Merida. She has clearly just gotten out of bed, if the rumpled dress and messy hair are any indication. She walks into the throne room with wary eyes and a frown. 

“Your Majesty?” she questions and then bows in respect, and something about the gesture pulls a small smile out of Harry. “You called for me?” 

“Lady Merida.” There’s an edge to Anne’s words — not sharp enough to cut but enough to leave a bruise if she wanted. The tension in her back dissipates just a little bit when she turns to look at Merida. “Captain Horan informed me that you might know some things are of great interest to all of us regarding my daughter and your cousin. Would you be so kind as to share them with me?” 

Merida glaces around the room, eyes landing on Harry and staying. She doesn’t say anything to him, but the questions in her eyes are clear even from far away. Harry shrugs. He could hazard a guess at what’s going on, but he has no idea what his mother is expecting to hear from Merida. He tries to catch Niall’s eyes, but it’s hard to do from here, so he simply nods at Merida. Whatever she has to say, it can’t hurt. She already told Harry everything relevant, anyway. Harry sees her suck in a deep breath. 

Merida turns back to the queen. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I should probably have come to you first.” 

“No need for apologies, dear. Just get on with it.” 

Harry knows Merida is steeling herself for whatever she’s about to say. It can’t be any different from what she told Harry earlier, but still. That was in the confines of a private room. This is what Giovanna and Francis mere steps away from her. Looking at them now, Harry can’t believe how nobody in Novac ever suspected Merida to be their child. She has the same brown eyes as them and they match the shade Harry remembers seeing on Liam. They have the same pale skin, the curve of Merida’s mouth is exactly the same as her mother’s. She has her father’s nose and there’s even a birthmark on her jaw that Harry must have missed somehow during their first encounter. She’s not a spitting image of her parents — her eyes are softer, kinder, like Liam’s, and there’s an aura of _something_ around her — but the resemblance between the three of them is undeniable. Perhaps it’s the lines in her forehead or the roughness in her demeanor that sets her apart from her parents. 

Merida has her back towards Giovanna and Franic when she says, “When I arrived in Delea, I immediately sought out Captain Horan. He’s a busy man and he wasn’t willing to waste his time talking to a strange girl he didn’t know, but I told him I wanted to talk about Princess Gemma and that had his attention.” 

Behind Merida, Harry sees Giovanna stiffen. Francis leans forward in his seat, eyebrows coming close together in rapt interest. 

“I told him I’d seen Gemma in Novac, at the palace, and —”

“That is simply absurd!” Giovanna’s shrill voice interrupts. 

Anne waves a hand in Giovanna’s general direction, but makes no effort to look at her. “Pay no mind to that, dear. Go on.”

Merida glances towards Harry once again, but this time it’s only fleeting. She squares her shoulders, lifts her chin like she’s pulled some newfound confidence from the air around her, and says, “I told Captain Horan I’d seen the princess in Novac. I didn’t stay there and interact with anyone who was with her, but I’m almost certain they’re keeping her in a nearby cottage. Liam was with them, too, but I don’t think he’s part of the plan. I don’t think he knows what’s happening.” 

“Again, that is just ridiculous, Merida. In what world would —”

“Be _quiet,_ Giovanna!” Anne’s voice thunders, almost echoing around the room. “It isn’t your turn to speak just yet.” 

Merida looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here. 

“Anything else you’d like to say, my dear?” Anne asks her. 

There’s a moment in which Anne looks at Merida silently and it’s like she _knows._ Harry hasn’t told her anything about Novac’s princess, but something in the way Anne is _seeing_ Merida says that she just knows. Maybe it was Niall who told her, because how else would she know to ask Merida anything? Harry doesn’t know what Merida finds in his mother’s eyes, but mouths something at the queen before turning to face Giovanna and Francis — the son of a bitch is still sitting like his dirty laundry hasn’t been aired by his very daughter, whom he told the world is dead. Merida walks over to him, stands in front of the chair and looks down at him and it makes Harry proud. It’s an inexplicable feeling, but watching her tower over the man is enough to make Harry’s heart feel just a bit lighter on her behalf. 

“I’ll never know why you did it,” Merida begins, voice soft and slow and sure. It’s lethal. “You’re a sick man, Francis, and I’ll never understand why you played with your son’s happiness just to fill your pockets with more green. I truly will not understand it. I thought seeing your son happy and thriving with his bride would be what you wanted, but maybe that’s my own mistake. You two,” she points between Francis and Giovanna, “have always wanted money, haven’t you? You’ve always been greedy for power. I suppose I hoped that it ended with me, that you decided to grow the fuck up and learned to value people over material wealth that won’t follow you into your graves. That’s my own naivety.” 

“What are you talking about? We’ve done no such thing,” Giovanna interjects, hand on her heart like she cannot believe someone would say such a thing about her and her husband. 

Merida nearly swirls around in place, finger pointed at Giovanna. _“You_ gave me up. _You_ pretended I was _dead_ and you _gave me up._ You watched me grow up under your own fucking roof, watched someone else take care of me and treat me like her daughter, all while you sat back and told everyone who would listen that I was _dead._ You grieved my make belief death in front of everyone, got them to feel sorry for you, all for what? Because you wanted a son to carry your legacy? You’re both sick and twisted and now you don’t even care about that son you so desperately wanted. All you’ve ever wanted was more money and more power and it’s made you blind, _mother.”_

Silence. There’s such a heavy silence in the room. Francis is frozen in the chair and Giovanna is a statue in front of Merida, and Anne has crossed her arms over her chest, a tiny smile playing on her lips. Niall is watching from his spot near the doors and Harry’s watching Merida, who might be shaking. But there’s an all encompassing silence and the only thing Harry can hear is his own heartbeat in his ears. Merida told him last night that she doesn’t want her lineage exposed, but now here she stands after having nearly yelled it to her birth parents. Once again, Harry feels strangely proud of her. 

“I’m not going to tell your people, don’t you worry,” she continues when neither Francis or Giovanna say anything. “I’m not going to claim my rightful place as Novac’s princess. Your kingdom can catch fire and burn to cinders for all I care, you won’t see me shed a tear for it. But I need you to know that _I_ know, and now the queen of Delea knows, too. Your ugly schemes will not succeed, Giovanna. _You_ won’t succeed, as long as I have to say something about it, and I have lots I can say until you’re nothing but dust. And if that’s all, Your Majesty,” she turns to Anne, “I’d like to leave now.” 

Anne nods. “You don’t have to stay any longer if you don’t wish to,” she says, and in a rare display of affection for strangers, extends her arms to Merida. Merida steps into the embrace without hesitation and Anne holds her close. Harry can’t hear what she says to the princess, but whatever it is makes tears fall from Merida’s closed eyes and down her cheeks. 

Then Merida’s gone and it’s just the six of them left. 

“Stand up, Francis. Grasp onto some dignity, even if you don’t have any left.”

He stands, dazed as though he’s in a trance. 

Anne returns to her throne and Harry flanks her right.

“I’m going to speak very simply and very frankly, so I hope you’re listening really closely.” She crosses her legs — the picture of leisure. “To throw your daughter’s words at you, I think you’re both sick. Abandoning your little girl in favor of a boy? Trampling over his happiness in favor of power? You don’t deserve to be parents. You don’t deserve your children. You not only toyed with your children, but you also played with my daughter’s feelings and her safety. You two may not think highly of daughters, but mine means the world to me and make no mistake, loves, I _will_ make your lives hell for what you’ve put her through. But first — tell me how you did it. Tell me which motherfucker has the audacity to step into _my_ home and steal away _my_ daughter.”

In more than two decades of being alive, Harry has never heard his mother swear before this moment. There’s no malice in her voice, but it is cutting and anyone with any self preservation skills would do well not to antagonize her further. 

Giovanna must sense it, too, because instead of beating around the bush like she’s been doing since this conversation started, she sighs. “It was Francis’ idea,” she admits without looking at her husband, who is finally expressing some appropriate emotion and shooting daggers her way. “We used a man by the name of Havlicek — the father of that guard who was taken, too, and came back bloody to the bone. He was supposed to take the fall.” 

_“Came back bloody to bone.”_

_“He was supposed to take the fall.”_

The world around Harry goes to hazy. Sounds turn to static and his vision goes blurry with untamed fury as he’s hit with the realization that Louis was set to fall on the sword from the very beginning. These people made sure that _Louis_ would be the one taking the blame. They hurt Louis so their own plans could go without a hitch and they could take Harry’s home from him. _They hurt Louis._ Harry’s nails dig into his palms with the effort it takes to not leap across the room and make them pay for every cut and bruise on Louis’ body. 

Louis’ marred back flashes behind Harry’s eyelids and he has to heave in a shaky breath. 

“The father must have had a change of heart,” Giovanna is saying. “It’s the only explanation I can think of.” 

Louis went back to find Gemma. He was hurt, he was beaten to a pulp, and he still went to bring Gemma back. 

Harry feels sick. He doesn’t hear the rest of what Giovanna says. All he can think of is the blood seeping from the wounds on Louis’ back. The bruises around his eyes, the cuts on his face. The way Louis gasped, choking on his own breath, when Harry wiped the blood from his back. 

It’s his mother’s booming voice that snaps him out of his own thoughts. “You can go to the room you’re staying in. You are to speak to absolutely no one, Captain Horan will make sure of that. If I see you roaming around or hear of it from anyone else, I swear, I will cut your damn heads off and hang them by the palace gates. Do not test my patience. I’ll decide what to do with you after I've seen my daughter and spoken to your son. Now get the fuck out of my sight. Niall, make sure you keep that bitch a Captain away from them. Lock him up for now if you have to.” 

It happens rather quickly, but feels as though it takes a lifetime. Niall escorts the traitorous king and queen out of the throne room and closes the door behind him, leaving Harry alone with his mother, who now has her head in her hands. For a moment, Harry thinks she might be crying, but that’s not the way his mother is. She doesn’t crumble, not when she’s so close to winning. He kneels beside her and leans his forehead against her knee; one of her hands runs through his hair. 

“Everything will be okay, darling. I promise.” 

“I know, Mum. I trust you.” 

Everything will be okay. 

Gemma’s coming home soon.

Louis’ coming back. 

Everything will be fine. They’ll be alright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a comment here and/or come chat to me on tumblr if u want! - seed / rosesau


	4. i'm begging you please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> happily ever after duh. but also too much happens idk have fun
> 
> some songs for this ch:  
> \- bones by kenzie nimmo  
> \- hang ups by scott helman  
> \- bruises by lewis capaldi  
> \- sick of losing soulmates by dodie  
> \- worthy of you by plested  
> \- desire by years & years  
> \- pretty venom by all time low  
> \- still by niall  
> \- bloodsport '15 by raleigh richie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL ! took me 834 days but i finally fucking finished this bitch of a fic that was supposed to be over by like 60k words. honestly never thought i'd see this day tbh so lemme just. be a lil sappy and then i'll be on my way. the biggest fucking thank u to rafa for all her patience and the love she's shown these characters. like truly. cannot put into words how vital her presence was in the writing of this. love u, rafa. mwah. and also big big big thanks to kat for, well, being one of the biggest reasons i came back to this story after abandoning it after a really tough time personally. this story as it is would not exist if it weren't for her. and then amber - i love u bitch. now go write the spy fic. thank u to jeanne and mert and literally every single one of u who've been reading chapter by chapter and have left comments or sent asks on tumblr i adore u all so much. thank u thank u thank u all the love always MWAH thank u to mr raleigh ritchie for writing bloodsport and inspiring this story thank u to alex for making fun of me bc i dont know which month comes when just thank u if u played a part in this story i love u 
> 
> there _is_ a scene towards the end when a ritual is performed. there are knives & blood involved and this time u actually read about the (slightly) gory stuff as it happens (rather than just mentions of it like earlier in the story) so just be aware of that if that's a trigger for u. be safe & keep social distancing !!
> 
> see u on the flip side im retiring from writing after this.

_“A soul mate is not the person who makes you the happiest, but the one that makes you feel the most. Who conducts your heart to bang the loudest, who can drag you giggling with forgiveness from the cellar they locked you in.” — Sierra DeMulder_

_The universe plots to bring those together who can heal each other together. — Nikita Gill_

* * *

The day passes with Harry aimlessly and restlessly wandering the palace. The snow has melted away entirely and the sun is peeking out from behind the clouds, so it’s not the worst idea to spend time in the gardens — which is exactly what Harry does. He spreads a blanket on the barely there grass and sits down in the patch of sunlight that’s keeping him warm. He didn’t get a chance to read the books he pulled out of the library yesterday, so he flips through them now, looking for explanations about breaking his and Louis’ bond. He has to talk to Louis about it first, he knows that now, but he still wants to know _how_ it’s done before he speaks to Louis. He wants to know what they’re both in for before he faces Louis. He needs to know just how deep this thing runs between them. It takes a while to find anything substantial, though. Mostly everything is about _what_ the bonds are and how people can recognize them, but there’s next to nothing about severing them. Harry knows it’s because breaking a soulbond is a rare occurrence — out of everyone he’s met who has known their soulmate, he can’t ever recall any of them breaking their bond. It just does not happen. 

After reading for who knows how long, he does find something in an old, weathered book that’s barely kept together at the binding. 

_The severance of a soulbond is an incredibly taxing ritual, both physically and emotionally._

It’s one sentence, but, nonetheless, it makes Harry pause. _Physically and emotionally taxing._ If they’d said spiritually taxing, it would make sense. Intuitively, it seems like a spiritual connection between two people, rather than a physical one. Even the emotional aspect fits to a degree. He only has his own experience to rely on, but he can’t deny there’s an emotional _something_ between him and Louis. He doesn’t know what it is, but he knows it’s there. Physically taxing, though? The thought doesn’t sit well with Harry — they’ve had enough emotional hurt — but he reads on, anyway. 

_The bond between two souls is more physical than most people realize. There seems to be a fundamental misunderstanding in what a soulbond is. It is more than a “connection” between two individuals that allows one to feel the physical pain of the other. It transcends physical emotion. The bond works in mysterious ways and appears, at times, to be unique to individuals. They are far and few in between, but soulmates can get to a point where they can be aware of_ all _of each other’s strong emotions. Instead of only being able to tell when one of them is physically hurt, they can know when the other is experiencing extreme happiness or an intense wave of guilt. The bond makes them nearly equivalent to one entity in almost all aspects of inhabiting a body but one: actually sharing the same body._

_There are those who simply need to be in the same vicinity as each other and their souls will recognize one another. These people need not say a word to each other, but the souls will know they’ve found the one that compliments them._

_There are also those who may spend years orbiting around each other, breathing in the same air and knowing each other intimately well, without ever triggering their soulbonds. Why? Because their hearts do not recognize one another. Physical connection between two bodies is not enough._

_And then there are those rare souls — or half souls, as they’re called. The ones who were pulled apart at the time of their creation and are in constant search of their other half. These are the souls who know they are missing something without ever knowing what — or why. These are the souls who pull at each other from oceans apart._

_These are the souls who hurt the most when the thread tying them is cut._

Harry’s breath is caught somewhere in his lungs and his heart is beating out of rhythm in his throat. 

_That is correct. All souls, contrary to popular understanding, are tied by a thread invisible to the human eye. Centuries ago, elders believed that dogs are able to see it and they’re likely to gravitate towards a pair of souls that have the same thread enveloping them. It was a loosely accepted idea that dogs can see fraying in the threads of souls and they desire to mend the fractures._

Prim. Harry thinks about Prim and Louis — how gently and curiously she approached Louis the first time she saw him laying on that bed, how she laid her head on top of Louis’ torso when he was squirming in pain. He remembers having to leave Prim with Louis that day because she wouldn’t step away from Louis. It makes Harry’s heart twist painfully, the idea that his _dog_ could see something tying Harry to Louis in a way that Harry will never see. Something physical connects him to Louis, always has, and the thought of that is... overwhelming. It’s enough to make Harry’s breathing become erratic. 

_When the bond is severed between half souls, it does more than end the so called “connection” between the two; a complex ritual rips the souls apart into pieces so small that they no longer represent a whole. The invisible thread is_ part _of the soul, which means breaking the thread is essentially breaking the soul. The two individuals part of the soul suffer tremendously when the act takes place and it is a pain that surpasses anything a physical body can comprehend. The few recorded instances of the ritual have reported people blacking out because their bodies simply could not withstand the pain caused by their souls fracturing and breaking in such an unnatural way._

Despite the sun shining down on him, Harry shudders from the chill that goes down his spine at reading those words. Regardless of how painful it might be, he and Louis need to do this. They have to. He can’t go the rest of his life feeling every ounce of pain Louis feels. He simply can’t. He’s willing to put himself through the excruciating ritual if it means he doesn’t have to be so intimately aware of Louis’ pain all the time. 

_It is reported that the two soulmates change drastically and permanently when the thread between them is no longer present. That is to say, if the people are romantically inclined or feel a sense of kinship towards each other, they may lose that along with their severed bond._

Harry closes the book with his heart threatening to escape his chest. Above him, the sun disappears behind a cluster of clouds. He and Louis aren’t “romantically inclined,” but Harry would be a liar if he said there isn’t _something_ there. He doesn’t recognize it, doesn’t know how to acknowledge and define it, but he knows it’s there. He felt it when Louis said his name. He felt it when he watched Louis put on his shirt. He felt it when Louis asked him what he wanted. He felt it when Louis smelled like him. He felt it when Louis walked away from him. He feels it now, not knowing where Louis is or how he is. He doesn’t know if he wants to get rid of that. 

He doesn’t know if he wants to get rid of Louis. 

A week ago, that’s all he wanted. Breaking this bond between him and Louis and forgetting it ever existed was all he wanted. Now, he doesn’t know if that’s the case. He doesn’t know if he wants a Louis shaped hole in his life. Somehow, without Harry even realizing, Louis carved a space for himself in the nooks of Harry’s heart. He may be the reason Harry’s blood boils more often than not, but that doesn’t mean Harry wants to get rid of it. 

The way Louis said his name echoes in his ears again. 

He wants to see Louis again, wants to know why he was hurting last night, wants to make sure he’s okay. There hasn’t been any new pain since then, just the distant ache in the same place where he felt it last night and that’s a good thing, but he wants to know why it happened. That wasn’t the kind of pain that happens accidentally, Harry knows it wasn’t because Louis tripped or something. Someone hurt him. Someone laid their hands on him again and _hurt_ him, even after Harry’s warnings, and that infuriates Harry in a way he can’t articulate. 

Still, he keeps reading. He has to know what they’re both in for. 

_A soulbond severance ritual is brief, but agonizing — particularly if the two souls have bonded intimately or in the case of half souls. It requires a virgin priestess, one who knows her own soulmate and understands the intricacies of the soulbond on a personal level. The ritual begins with the priestess reciting a rhyme that serves to untangle the soul thread. Once the thread lies untangled between the two souls (or half souls), the two people are to bleed into a small stone vessel. They must slice their palms with an obsidian blade and allow their blood to spill into the vessel simultaneously. The priestess must then add salt into the blood and set the stone vessel ablaze. The vessel must burn until it is no more than grey embers of what once was. The stronger the thread is, the longer it takes for the blood to burn and the vessel to disintegrate. For as long as the stone vessel is on fire, the two soulmates experience indescribable pain. When the vessel is reduced to ash, the thread between the two people is no more._

Harry sucks in a deep breath. 

Something about the idea of his blood literally mixing with Louis’ and fusing together until every drop evaporates is enough to make everything go hazy. The world tilts a little bit to the wrong side like it’s tipsy and Harry puts his head between his knees, closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the barren trees sway from side to side. 

His and Louis’ blood particles becoming one and disappearing together, he and Louis becoming one in essence in order to disconnect from each other… The thought leaves Harry dizzy. 

They have to do it, though. Just the notion of having to be aware of every ounce of Louis’ pain is nauseating. It used to be different, before. Before meeting and knowing Louis, all he wanted was to find his person and keep them safe. That was it. He never once considered the possibility of cutting the bond between them. It’s always been there, been a part of him, and he never thought he needed to get rid of it _—_ or that even could. Then he _met_ Louis and thought it was Louis’ fault that Gemma was kidnapped, so he didn’t want to be tied to the person responsible for putting his sister in danger, didn’t want that person in his life any longer than absolutely necessary. And now… now he doesn’t know how he can get rid of Louis and doesn’t know how he can keep living with Louis’ pain reverberating in his own body. 

_“You’re Harry, I’m Louis, and you have given me absolutely no reason to trust you.”_

_“I am not yours.”_

_“I don’t want to be yours.”_

_“You have no claim over me.”_

_“I am nothing to you.”_

Harry feels that same disorienting sensation that he so often experiences when he thinks about Louis. How is he supposed to tell Louis that Louis _is_ Harry’s? That Harry has more claim over Louis than anyone else in the entire world? How is he supposed to look Louis in the eye after Louis said, _“I don’t trust you for one goddamn second, Princeling,”_ and _“I have nothing to stay for,”_ and walked away from Harry? He knows he fucked up. Looking back, he knows he made many mistakes when talking to Louis and he knows he has to make up for it, but he doesn’t know how to do that. 

Sitting here under a blanket of clouds, Harry is hit with the overwhelming realization that he doesn’t want to lose Louis, whatever that means. Louis isn’t his to lose, anyway, but… he is. 

Harry wants to see him again so desperately, wants to see that he’s safe. Wants him to _be_ safe. 

_Having a part of one’s soul ripped away is a traumatizing experience and people are advised not to do it._

Harry sits and waits for the sun to return and warm his skin.

▴▴▴

Harry finds Niall in the infirmary with Arfa, the two of them standing face to face by one of the windows when Harry arrives. Arfa’s looking outside, Niall’s gazing at Arfa, they’re talking quietly and neither one of them look in Harry’s direction when he walks inside and sits down without a word on one of the beds. Harry knows it’s not because they don’t know he’s there. Even if Harry had walked in silently, Niall would still know someone else was in the room with them because he just has the keen sense. They know he’s there and they stay where they are, lost in their quietude and, almost surprising himself, Harry longs to have that with someone. He wants the comfort and stability that will come with _knowing_ his person, having them by his side. 

For so long, he’s been going from person to person, testing things out and moving on without any attachment because he didn’t _want_ anything before now. He was fine on his own and he still is, but right now looking at his best friend and Arfa, there’s a _want_ in his chest and he can feel it grow. Maybe it’s because he’s been thinking about Gemma’s wedding for a while, maybe it’s because Niall and Arfa’s relationship blindsided him, he’s not sure, but it’s cracking open something within him and he can feel it swimming in his veins. 

He has a person who isn’t even his, not in any way that’s real. A way that actually means something. 

“What is it?” comes Niall’s voice, breaking Harry out of his reverie. 

“What?”

Niall turns around finally, standing infinitesimally closer to Arfa, and stares at Harry inquisitively. “You have that look on your face, like you’re thinking really hard about something. Spit it out.”

“I’m not…” The words trail off, because what’s the point in lying — to Niall of all people. He always sees right through Harry and this time won’t be any exception. He settles on, “I don’t know,” because at least that much is true enough. There are a lot of thoughts swirling in his head and he doesn’t know where to even begin unraveling them. 

Niall watches him carefully, but Arfa is the one who says, “It’s Louis, isn’t it?” 

Harry’s eyes snap to her. She looks so small next to Niall, but somehow occupies the most space in the room. It’s so different from all the other times Harry has seen her; she’s always been small, quiet, but now something about her demands to be _seen._ Maybe it’s that she’s casually leaning against the windowsill like she commands the entire room or maybe it’s that she’s standing next to Niall, whose body is angled towards her in a way that clearly shows he’s paying attention to her. Or maybe it’s that she addressed Harry without being spoken to first or maybe it’s that she didn’t use a title for Harry’s name. Whatever it is, she seems confident and it’s somehow comforting. Refreshing. 

“Why would it be Louis?” _Is it that obvious?_

“I was there, remember? When you first saw him?” Something akin to a rueful smile tugs at her lips. “I remember your face, Harry, when you came to that room. I don’t think I can ever forget the way your eyes looked in that moment.” And if there’s pity in her voice, then Harry chooses to ignore it. 

Her words sink into him, though. Up until now, he hasn’t given much thought to what other people think about his and Louis’ situation, or how they perceive Harry’s actions and reactions. He remembers Alfieri’s angry words hurled at Louis the other day, when he said that unlike Louis, the rest of them don’t have the prince wrapped around their fingers. He hasn’t thought of himself like that in relation to Louis — in fact, he would like to believe he _isn’t_ wrapped around Louis’ anything. But it wouldn’t be true and he hates to admit that to himself. Louis has gotten under his skin, gotten mixed in his bloodstream, gotten embedded into the very structure of his heart. 

_You called him yours and threatened to have someone killed for him._

It’s a sobering reminder of his own actions, and an incredibly heavy one. He feels it physically weigh him down and he confesses, “I don’t know what I want or what I feel.” 

Arfa’s eyes soften with sympathy. “Talk to him. It’ll help.” 

Harry looks to Niall, desperate for _something._ “When is he coming back?” 

“Should be soon,” Niall says, then raises an eyebrow. “I’d have thought you’d be more eager to see your sister finally.”

Guilt churns in Harry’s stomach. It’s not as though he’s forgotten about Gemma. The anticipation of having his sister back home safely hasn’t let Harry sit still for days. He spent hours arranging a new room for her and rearranging her old one, simply so she could choose which one she wants to stay in from now on. He even had another room set up for Liam, just in case Gemma still wants the man around. Harry can’t _wait_ to see her again and hug her, have her back in the safety of their home, but Louis… the thought of Louis stays at the forefront of his mind. 

“I am excited to see her,” Harry says, his words coming out a little defensive, and it’s just awful. Gemma should be his priority. He remembers just a week ago when all he wanted was to see Gemma and have Louis away from him. Now he’s counting down the minutes until he sees Louis again. 

“I’m going to say something and you’re not going to like it,” Niall tells him. 

“Then don’t say it,” Harry responds. Any time Niall opens with that, it’s never anything Harry wants to hear. “Don’t do it, Niall.” Harry turns away from Niall and lays down on the small bed he’s been sitting on, folds both arms over his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at anyone. 

“I’m saying it,” Niall's voice comes again and it’s closer this time. Harry keeps his eyes closed. “You’re an emotionally stunted bastard sometimes, which means I’m sick of watching you foolishly flail around, completely oblivious to your own feelings, so I’m going to say it and you’re going to listen.” 

_“Oblivious to your own feelings.”_

“Don’t do it, Niall,” he repeats. An strange, uncomfortable weight settles around his chest, and he knows that the very last thing he wants is to listen to whatever Niall has to say. 

The mattress dips and there’s a familiar warmth next to him. “Harry. Look at me.” 

“No.” 

_“Look_ at me.”

_“No.”_

“You’re being a brat. Again.” 

Harry turns on his side, away from where Niall is sitting. “I can’t hear you, sorry.” 

“Harry, you asshole, you have feelings for Louis. Face them before you face Louis.”

Harry’s not sure he’s breathing. There’s air trapped in his lungs or in his throat and he doesn’t think he’s breathing. Everything feels suspended in time and Harry feels like he’s drowning in blue. Everything around him is static and all there’s an ocean of blue thrashing behind his eyelids. 

_“You have feelings for Louis.”_

Every single time he has gone out of his way to help Louis flashes by him, snapshots of the last week replaying one by one. 

“Something triggered it, Harry, I don’t know what, but I can see it.” This time Niall’s voice is distorted, like it’s coming to Harry through a body of water. “I see it when you talk about him. Your eyes get… they change when you speak about him. They’re brighter and… it’s like you’re not even aware of how much you care.” That’s probably true. Harry feels out of his own depth here. He doesn’t know how much he cares about Louis or why. “It might just be your soulmate thing, but it’s there and I don’t know how you don’t see it.” 

_Soulmate thing._ Harry knows they need to get rid of that. 

Harry sits up frantically. “Have you found a priestess?” He lets the rest of his question go unspoken because he knows Niall understands. 

“Yeah,” Niall nods, “I did. But Harry —”

“You need to set up a time with her for me or bring her here, Niall, please. You have to —”

“No.” 

“What?” 

“I’m not doing anything until you speak to Louis again,” Niall says. “Explain everything and _talk_ to him.” 

“He knows,” Harry admits, feels tendrils of shame coil around him as he remembers what he’s done. “I told you I made him forget, but he knows. He didn’t forget any of it. He knows.” 

Niall stares at him, mouth agape. Harry looks to Arfa, but she’s busy with something on a particular shelf and has her back to Harry and Niall. 

“He knows that he’s your soulmate?” Niall asks. “I don’t understand.”

“He knows he’s my soulmate, he knows I want to break the bond between us, he knows I tried to make him forget all of it. He said he knows I’ve compelled him multiple times. He said he’s not immune to compulsion, but that he knows how to resist it.” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Niall looks as confused as Harry feels and there’s a small comfort in knowing he isn’t alone in feeling so lost anymore. 

“I told you to talk to him,” comes Arfa’s voice, who still isn’t looking at anyone in the room. 

“You know,” Harry murmurs, hit with a realization he should’ve had ages ago. “You know something, don’t you? You know what Louis meant and that’s why —”

 _Oh my god._ How close _is_ Louis with Arfa? Why does she seem to know everything that leaves Harry with blank spaces in his mind? 

“Arfa —” Niall stands up from the bed and closes the space between them with just a few steps.

“No, no, no. No, absolutely not,” she says with her hands raised in front of her and she doesn’t let Niall any closer to her. “I’m not spilling any of his secrets. If you want to know anything about Louis, you have to ask _him._ He trusted me with his feelings and I’m not going to share them with you just because I love you. Or because you’re the prince,” she says the last part with a nod in Harry’s direction. “I’m Louis’ friend and I’m not sorry about it. Grow up and talk to him like an adult. He deserves that much respect from both of you.” 

Her voice never gets louder, but each word punches more than the last. 

“I’m going to step out of line, maybe, just for a moment,” she continues, eyes pinched and hands gesticulating wildly. “I know things have been really hectic and just insanely crazy these last few days, but I’m so disappointed in you both. Niall, Louis is your friend, too, or at least I thought he was. The way you’ve allowed him to be treated in the last week is just simply shameful. Your leniency with everyone who has been shit to him is part of the reason he quit. For all the big talk you talk about having your men under complete control and treating them all with the same respect, you certainly failed to extend that courtesy to Louis this week. He asked me not to say anything, but to hell with that. You hurt him and you need to know that.

“And you,” she points to Harry. “I know I’m _way_ out of place here, but you said you wanted us to be friends, so here’s some honesty for you in the name of friendship.” There’s a pause, like she’s reconsidering everything coming out of her mouth, but then she squares her shoulders and locks eyes with Harry. “I’ve kept my distance from you for a while because of Louis. His friendship means a lot to me and I will choose him over you any day, but I also care about you because I know you’re not a bad person. You have so much good in you, Harry, and I don’t know where it goes when it comes to Louis. Is it the soulmate thing? Is that really it? Are you afraid he’ll hurt you somehow? Are you afraid you’ll fall in love with Louis if you treat him as anything more than someone you have a cosmic claim over? In that case: you won’t fall in love with him because he’s your soulmate. You don’t need an abstract… _thing_ to fall in love with someone.” 

“I’m not in love with Louis,” Harry responds instinctively. _He’s not._

“I’m not saying you are, but you could be. I’ve seen it in the way you are around him, the way you are _about_ him. It’s hard to miss.”

“I’m not in love with Louis,” he repeats. 

“Fine. You’re not in love with Louis. Doesn’t matter, really, but you need to stop treating him like he’s something that belongs to you. He might not be a royal, but he is a person. On some level, he is your equal. Treat him as such before he loses any respect he has for you.”

“He respects me?” That doesn’t seem likely. In all their interactions so far, Louis has shown anything but respect for Harry. Annoyance? Yes. Disdain? Yes. contempt? Yes. Never respect. 

_You’ve never shown him respect, either._

Arfa tilts her head. “Do everyone a favor and talk to him, please.” 

When Harry walked in here, he wasn’t expected to have his ass handed to him on a platter. Someone else telling him that he has feelings for Louis is not only outrageous but also humiliating. How out of touch is he with his own emotions that he has to be _told_ what they are by someone else? How strong and obvious are his emotions that other people can pick up on them when he hasn’t said anything about them? How awfully has he treated Louis that one of the servants is standing up to Harry and telling him to get his act together? Harry feels embarrassed. 

It’s a fairly alien feeling for him. Rarely does anything embarrass him and when it does happen, it’s because he’s made a fool of himself by tripping over air or something entirely harmless. He’s never before been embarrassed of himself because he treated someone so horribly. He may be prone to bouts of princely arrogance, but he has always prided himself on being _good._ He is admired by people for his friendly and understanding nature, so realizing that he’s been the opposite of all he stands for with Louis is just disappointing. And knowing he also disappointed someone like Arfa doesn’t help. 

_“Griping about momentous egos doesn’t suit you, Your Highness.”_

He wonders how Louis let Harry say all that he said without ever once taking a swing at him. Prince or no prince, if their places were reversed and someone treated Harry the way he did Louis, he almost certainly would’ve lost his cool. 

_That only highlights the difference between you two._

Harry sighs. Time is dragging on and on and on and all he wants is to see his people again. 

▴▴▴

It’s two days later and Harry has just gotten out of a bath. After the conversation with Niall and Arfa, his thoughts have been racing every which way, so he’s doing everything he can to distract himself. Right now, he’s standing in front of his vanity, dusting shimmery golden power onto his eyelids. It’s just another day and absolutely no occasion to dress up, but it’s something to keep his mind off of everything else so he’s spending more time than necessary changing into another outfit. He was wearing a creamy blouse with equally soft trousers earlier, but sitting around just _waiting_ for something to happen got boring and made him anxious, so he took a bath. Now he's wearing a golden silk top underneath a dark velvet emerald coat. It’s one of his favorite coats — the intricate gold embroidery that surrounds the collar and flows down the shoulder blades is _stunning,_ makes the garment stand out among all others. It doesn’t hurt that the dark green color makes his eyes look brighter and, well, he looks good, especially when he pairs it with dark trousers and gold boots. 

It’s fun to go just beyond the clothes sometimes, though, so he dusts powder on his eyes and, just for the hell of it, makes his cheeks a little rosy. He’s fine in the summer, his face is always an angry pink in the summer if he spends enough time in the sun, but winter is a different situation altogether. His skin is way too pale on its own and the cold does nothing to make him look more lively, so Harry has to take matters into his own hands when the weather is like this. He shakes his damp hair out of the towel it’s been wrapped in and lets it fall naturally. It’s getting longer — not as long as it once used to be, but it’s definitely visibly longer than it was just two weeks ago and he kind of likes it. He’s not planning on growing it out any time soon, not like before, but he likes the way it looks right now falling just above his shoulders. He cards a hand through it to smooth out some of the tangles and then lets it be

Next, he slides various rings onto his fingers. His favorite is the amethyst one because it used to belong to his grandmother and Harry has a distant, hazy memory of her wearing it before she passed on. It’s a gorgeous ring. The face of the pastel lavender purple gem contains a gold inlay of a single stemmed rose, accented with a genuine diamond. The shoulders of the ring have unique engraved designs that wrap all the way around the gold band. Whether he wears any other jewelry or not, this one stays with him. Rumor has it that Harry inherited the gift of compulsion from the same grandmother whose ring he adores so much. There are other rings, too, that he wears often but the amethyst is without a doubt his most cherished piece of jewelry. 

The whole time he’s been getting ready, Prim has been watching him quietly from the bed. When he turns around now, he sees that she has dozed off, curled into herself in a small ball. He can’t bring himself to wake her and bring her downstairs with him, so he simply puts on shoes and tiptoes out of his room. His chest feels tight, like something is about to happen, and he can’t really get a deep breath in, but he keeps trying. Giovanna and Francis have not been allowed outside their room since that night and their slimy guardmaster is being held elsewhere. Niall won’t tell him where because, apparently, Harry has a temper when talking to people who have caused harm to Louis and they simply don’t need that at the moment. That’s also why Harry hasn’t been told where that Perreault asshole is being kept. They’ll all be banished out of the Delea together, Harry reckons, but, God, does he wish to _hurt_ them before they’re gone from his life. He just wants to avenge every moment of pain they put his loved ones through. 

He’s making his way down the hallway, has half a mind to visit Louis’ sisters to see how they’re doing. Harry doesn’t really know them and going there would be counterproductive, considering he wants to stop thinking about Louis and everything related to Louis, but he can’t stop thinking about it, either. He turns a corner and collides with someone coming from the opposite direction and — Arfa. It’s Arfa. 

“Harry.” She’s crying. She’s shaking and she’s crying, one trembling hand clamped over her mouth, and Harry’s heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach. 

“What? What happened?” He instinctively touches her face, tilts it from side to side, rakes his eyes up and down her body to make sure she isn’t hurt, even though part of him already knows that’s not the case. 

“Harry, they — they’re here,” Arfa hiccups. “She’s here, she’s sa-safe. She’s back.” 

Harry feels a shudder run through his entire body like an electric current. 

_Gemma._

“Are you —?”

He can’t finish the question before he’s running down the carpeted hallway, racing down the spiral stairway and, oh, his heart is _racing._ The exhilaration coursing through his veins at the thought of seeing his sister again _finally_ is something he hasn’t felt in a while. _She’s here she’s here she’s here_ — his feet move on their own accord, pushing and pushing, his coat flaring behind him with every step. She’s here. He knows she is. He can feel it in the air around him, the way none of the guards stationed inside the palace stop him to ask if everything is alright. They know, too. 

Their princess is back. She’s back. 

It’s only when Harry’s standing on the main level that he realizes he doesn’t know _where_ she is. He turns to the first guard he spots. 

“Where, um —” He’s out of breath. His heart strains against his ribs and he can _feel_ his lungs working harder than they should. “Where is Gemma.” 

“In the council room, Your Highness,” the man responds. 

“Thank you.” Harry’s pretty sure he knows the guard’s name, but he doesn’t want to be wrong, so he leaves his gratitude at that and heads towards the council room. He tries to pace himself this time simply because his organs might collapse if he doesn’t, but still. He can only control himself for so long. Before he knows it, he’s sprinting past doors until he comes to the council room and — 

_Gemma._

He can’t say it out loud. His mouth moves to say the name, but no sound comes out and he realizes he’s fucking crying. She’s right there, sitting next to their mother, both with their arms wrapped securely around each other. He stands paralyzed with joy and time feels suspended, but it’s only a moment before Gemma’s head turns his way and then she’s out of her seat, running in Harry’s direction and finally finally finally Harry moves, meets his sister halfway across the room and locks her in a tight embrace. 

_I missed you so much,_ he wants to say, but nothing gets past the lump in his throat. He knows his face is stained with tears and there are people watching, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care because his sister is back home. Finally. _Finally._

Gemma holds him just as tightly and she might be crying like Harry, but he thinks he hears a giggle, too. 

He pulls back, not enough to let her go, but enough to get a good look at her face. “What?” he asks and the way his voice breaks would be embarrassing at any other moment. 

Gemma’s eyes glint with mirth, just like they so often used to. “I disappeared for a week, fuck knows where as far as you were concerned, but that didn’t stop you from spending your days playing dress up, did it?”

And Harry can’t help it. He laughs, but it’s a pathetic sound when he’s sniffling at the same time. “Shut up,” he chuckles into her hair, hugs her closer again. “I did miss you. So much. I was worried sick about you. Had no idea how you were holding up, how they were treating you and —”

He pulls back then fully, squints at Gemma as confusion takes over him. 

Somewhere in his imagination, Harry was expecting Gemma to come home thin and frail, her clothes dirty and tattered, hair greasy and face tired, but... she looks fine. Her skin doesn’t have that radiant glow she typically does when she’s well rested and happy, but her eyes are still full of light. She’s wearing a neatly pressed white and turquoise chiffon gown and there’s a white ribbon in her hair. She doesn’t look physically hurt anywhere, there’s not a smudge of dirt on her clothes or on her face, and she’s studying Harry closely as if she knows exactly what’s going through his mind. 

“I’m fine,” she assures him. “I just need to sleep in my own bed and I’ll be good as new.” 

“What — where were you? Did anyone hurt you? I swear, I’ll —”

“No one hurt me, Harry.” She wipes at his tear stained cheeks with the sleeve of her dress. “Come on, sit. I’ll tell you everything.” 

Harry takes a moment to look around. The room isn’t as crowded as Harry thought it would be. There’s their mother standing by a table, wearing a bright red grown and smiling like she hasn’t since the night Gemma disappeared. Atop her head is a very heavy crown, not just the diadem. Liam is there, too, standing near that same table looking very out of place. Giovanna and Francis are here, sitting at a table in the back of the room. Harry scans the room for Merida, just in case he missed her somehow, but she isn’t here. Harry wonders where she is, where all the guards are who played a part in this and where that Havlicek character is. 

_Where is Louis?_

Gemma drags Harry to where Anne is and he pulls both of them into a hug. “I love you both. So much.” 

This is it. These are the people Harry loves most in the world and would go to war for. 

When they all sit down, Gemma’s hand held in Anne’s, Harry warily turns to Liam. He’s _here,_ sitting with Harry’s family and not his own backstabbing parents, so that has to mean something. He looks just as immaculate as Gemma, though his forehead is creased with lines and his mouth is lost in a frown. Harry nods at him in a silent greeting and turns to Gemma. She’s the one he wants to hear from. 

“What happened, then?”

At that moment, multiple people rush in with trays full of food in hand. They’ve all got exuberant smiles on their faces and all of them bow quickly to Gemma, happily welcoming her back home and Gemma smiles back in kind. She looks right at home. 

“I’m not really very hungry,” she says, “but thank you all. I’ve missed this.”

Harry wonders what she was given to eat there. 

“That night is a blur, you know,” Gemma starts, eyes trained on her hands and shoulders rigid now. “It was going so well. I went to change into my silver dress and it was a hassle to get into, so Nadia was helping me.” Her voice quivers and breaks when she says her maiden’s name and Harry can see her lips quivering. “I was a bit drunk, I think, maybe more than a bit. The dress was difficult to put on and then there were suddenly these people stepping out from under the bed, from the bathroom and, um, some of them were hidden around corners. I can’t remember how many of them were there because I panicked, but I think I saw at least six. Nadia and I were fixing my hair in the ensuite when they came and dragged her away.” 

Gemma stops. She pulls away from Anne and wrings her hands together, fiddling with her fingers and picking at her cuticles. 

“They, um. They were wearing Delea uniforms so I didn’t immediately realize they were imposters. I thought something else was wrong. Then, uh, Louis — um, Louis Tomlinson was in the room trying to get me away from them.” Harry's heartbeat goes haywire at the mention of Louis’ name and, like he knows he’s being talked about, there’s a slight aching sensation under Harry’s right eye. “I lost count of how many people were in the room and I couldn’t do anything to help in my dress.” Harry sees a heavy teardrop fall on her hand. “Louis was trying so hard, but there was only one of him and they were so — so many. I could hear them hurting him and then I — they —” Gemma stops talking as a sob wracks her entire frame and Harry scoots his chair closer to put his arm around her. She comes easily and lets her head fall against his chest. He doesn’t care that she’s crying onto his clothes. “They hurt Nadia, I saw them hurt Nadia and I — I heard it. Her neck. I —” Her words dissolve into broken, untamed sobs and Harry just holds her closer. 

His blood is simmering with rage. He remembers seeing Nadia’s unnaturally still body that night and something in his chest just cleaves in half as a sudden wave of sorrow washes over him. Nadia _died._ She was one of Gemma’s closest friends and she is _dead_ because of Liam’s parents. They took something — someone — irreplaceable from his sister and Harry wants nothing more than to leap across the room and make them pay, but all he can do is hold Gemma and let her cry for as long as she wants to. He can glare at Liam from across the table, though, so he does just that and relishes in the way the other man shrinks back in his seat. 

Anne puts a hand on Gemma’s shoulder and squeezes. It’s a rare moment that his mother has tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, dear, I know how much you loved her. Her family would like to see you whenever you’re ready for it.” 

Guilt and shame twist around Harry. He was supposed to visit Nadia’s family and console them however he could, but he didn’t. He should have, but he didn’t. Right now, holding his grieving sister in his arms, he feels especially dirty in his skin. The least he could have done was offer his condolences to Nadia’s family in person.

Liam pours a glass of water and holds it out towards Harry, his eyes moving from the water to Gemma and then to Harry’s own. They’re kind, is the thing. Liam has kind eyes, warm and gentle. It softens the steely feelings Harry has towards him, but only fractionally. He still doesn’t know if Liam truly is innocent. He accepts the water, though, and helps Gemma sip some of it until her hiccups subside. 

“I’d like to get some sleep,” she whispers. “And, um, don’t blame Liam,” she continues like she just read Harry’s mind. She looks up at him and then at their mother. “He didn’t know. He really didn’t know about anything and he was good to me. You can talk to him, but don’t blame him for any of this because he’s a victim, too. And he should rest before you interrogate him.” Gemma looks across the table at Liam and her mouth quirks with the hint of a smile. “If they give you shit for anything, just tell me. Harry can be a bit overbearing.” 

_“Hey.”_ Harry can’t help but feel indignant when Liam chuckles. He still looks uneasy, but Harry can’t blame him for that. 

Gemma turns to Harry and this time that spark is back in her eyes. “I told every motherfucker over there that my brother can compel them into cutting off their own necks. They’re terrified of you and not one of them dared touch me after that.” 

So much for keeping his gift inconspicuous. But it’s true — Harry would gladly do just that if it meant keeping his sister safe. 

Gemma doesn’t touch the food brought for her and instead goes to her room, trailed by four armed guards. Before she goes, she says to Harry, “Don’t go looking for Louis. He didn’t explain, but he asked me to, and I quote, ‘implore you,’ to not seek him out.” 

If he were standing, Harry’s sure he would have needed something to balance him because he’s suddenly feeling dizzy. “What do you mean?” _Don’t go looking for Louis?_ “Where is he?” He was supposed to come back. He’s supposed to be here, somewhere. Why isn’t he here?

“I don’t know, Harry, but he seemed very serious about it. And I’d respect his privacy after everything that’s happened.” 

With that, she’s gone, leaving Harry nearly breathless. Anne goes with her, after ordering for Giovanna and Francis to be taken back to their room. That leaves Harry with Liam alone in the room. That’s something to focus on, at least. He can’t think about Louis right now, that has to wait. Harry needs to know Liam’s version of all of this. Pushing aside all thoughts of his blue eyed boy, Harry focuses every bit of attention on Liam. 

“So,” he begins, and lets the word hang between them. Liam looks incredibly uncomfortable, as he should, but Harry passes him a brief smile. “You can eat, you know.” 

Liam presses his lips into a thin line. “If I eat anything, I’m sure it will only come back up. Just being here is making me sick.” 

Harry bristles at that. “We’re that vile for your Novac standards now?”

“No, no,” Liam rushes, leaning on the table now. “It’s not that, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just... I feel sick at what parents have done and I’m ashamed to still be here, treated with nothing but kindness and respect from your people.” He looks at Harry earnestly and says, “I assure you, I feel nothing but the utmost respect for you and your kingdom. It is my own that has let me down. Being here is making me sick simply because I don’t deserve to be here.”

That stuns Harry into silence. Through all of this, he hasn’t taken the time to think about the situation from Liam’s perspective. He imagines himself in Liam’s position for a moment, imagines Anne putting his life in jeopardy the way Giovanna did Liam’s, and he feels a pang of sympathy for the man sitting across from him. He imagines his mother risking the life of someone who means so much to him and, in a flash that renders him breathless, he sees Louis’ dance behind his eyes. With a shudder, he closes them — that’s not what he needs right now. Right now, he feels sorrow and anger on Liam’s behalf. That’s what this is about. Not… 

“How did you know it was your parents and not someone else?” 

Liam winces. “I didn’t realize it had anything to do with my parents until I woke up and recognized Novac. That was odd. And, um, they weren’t hurting us. The people who took us. I didn’t know them, but they weren’t hurting us. I didn’t believe it was my parents’ doing until your men came to get us and one of them explained what happened. Louis, I think.”

 _Louis._ Again. After everything, why would he still want to help? Why does he have that much _good_ in him? 

“He said his father executed the whole thing?” Liam continues, and Harry isn’t sure if that’s a cautious question or a statement of fact. “I mean, why would he help sabotage his own father’s mission?” 

_Estranged father,_ Harry thinks, even though that’s not really true. Louis believed his father to be dead — literally or metaphorically, Harry doesn’t know. Regardless, Harry stares at Liam with a tilt of his head. “You’re nothing like your father,” he says. “Neither is Louis.” 

It doesn’t escape Harry’s notice that he’s defending Louis’ honor in his absence. It confuses him, but that’s not new. Everything about Louis has confused him from day one. 

“I know this doesn’t really concern you,” Liam begins and his eyes stay steadily trained on Harry’s. “Just thought I’d let you know anyway. I don’t know if I have it in my heart to banish my parents in some remote wilderness, but I am going to take their crowns. Whatever punishment Her Majesty deems fit for them is, of course, fair; I won’t protest against it. But they’ve also broken Novac laws and hurt someone I love, so I plan on taking from them the thing they wanted most.” 

Once again, Liam has left Harry speechless. He knew Liam loves his sister. There’s a reason they were set to get married. He just didn’t know how strong Liam’s moral code is and what lengths he’s willing to go for the people he loves. Harry’s respect for him skyrockets and he gives Liam a genuine smile this time, albeit a little grim. 

“Thank you, Liam.” 

“It’s the least I can do, Your Highness.” 

“Call me Harry, please.” It’s strange to exchange formalities with his sister’s fiancé — potentially ex fiancé, but the same principle. It would be like Niall seriously using Harry’s title. 

The two of them sit in the council room in companionable silence as Harry nibbles on a deliciously red apple. Conversation with Liam is over for now and Harry’s thoughts run back to the same blue eyes that have been haunting him for days now. Why doesn’t Louis want to see him? Harry could go right now. He knows where Louis lives. He asked Niall earlier when he was thinking of visiting Louis’ sisters and Niall thought it was a kind gesture, so he told Harry. There’s a possibility that he would get lost, but still. He knows where Louis lives. He could go. 

_“He asked me to, and I quote, ‘implore you,’ to not seek him out.”_

_“I’d respect his privacy after everything that’s happened.”_

It’s upsetting. Harry just wants to see him, just wants to make sure he’s alright and apologize for his horrible attitude and behavior. He just wants to make things civil between them. 

Why can’t he do that? 

He chokes on the apple when he realizes he _misses_ Louis. 

▴▴▴

Harry is drunk. 

After Gemma slept for a few hours and had a chance to freshen up, she spent some time alone with Liam and then came to Harry’s room. The minute she walked through the door, Prim jumped into her arms and refused to have any distance between herself and Gemma. They both sat on Harry’s bed as Gemma told him about her time in Novac: she had access to a warm bed and clean clothes. They gave her homemade food and let her be with Liam the entire time. The man Louis told him about, Havlicek, was only there once and she never saw him again. According to her, Louis looks nothing like him even though they’re both built the same way. 

“Louis has kind eyes,” she told him. Harry only remembers those eyes being angry at him. So so stromy. 

They had dinner together for the first time in almost two weeks and there was a generous amount of wine and champagne served. 

So Harry is drunk. 

He’s drunk and he’s thinking about Louis. 

It’s just. He wants to see Louis. One of the last times they saw each other, Harry held Louis’ wrist in his hand and begged him not to leave. Harry _begged_ him. _Harry_ begged him. Harry begged _him._ And the last time they saw each other, Louis said to him, _“I don’t want to be yours,”_ and he was so close. He was _so_ close to Harry and Harry could smell himself on Louis. He was ready to fall to his knees simply because Louis was so close and he was saying, _“I don’t want to be yours,”_ and, just, Harry needs to see him. Even if he doesn’t want to be Harry’s. It stings, but it is what it is. He doesn’t have to be Harry’s, even though he sort of is. Even if it’s not for much longer. He still is Harry’s. A little bit. And Harry wants to see him. 

And maybe… 

Harry wanders down the now empty halls of his palace and drunkenly nods at the guards who are still awake and on duty. They’ve been working so much since… since all that happened. Since Gemma got kidnapped and Harry lost his boy to the chaos of it all. They deserve a raise. A hefty raise. He’s going to have to talk to Niall about that. Maybe all of their families can have a month’s ration for free. Maybe for six months. He’ll talk to Niall about it. Niall’s good to his men, he really is. Always does what he can to make sure they’re all well taken care of. If any of them are ever struggling, they know they can always ask Niall for help and he’s always more than happy to oblige — after consulting with Harry’s mother, but that’s all semantics. Bottom line is that Niall likes to help people, which is good, because Harry needs his help right now. 

When he gets to Niall’s room, he doesn’t knock. He walks in and, thankfully, doesn’t find Niall in a compromising position. Niall is asleep, which might be a miracle in and of itself, considering how vigilant he’s been these last couple of weeks. But there he is, asleep in his bed, clutching a pillow to his chest. Perhaps he misses someone. Perhaps Harry can do something to change that, but later. Right now, he needs help. He tiptoes closer to the bed and takes a seat at the edge, taps Niall’s cheek with one finger. It takes a moment, but Niall wakes up with a start and sits up straight so fast Harry think he might pull a muscle and then —

“What the fuck, Harry?” he screeches, looking around like he’s unsure where they are and what’s happening. “It’s the middle of the fucking night, holy God. What are you doing here?” 

“I need to see Louis,” Harry tells him plainly. What’s the point in beating around the bush? 

“Like I said, it’s the middle of the fucking night. Go to sleep.” Niall squints. “You’re drunk, too. Definitely go to sleep.” 

“I can’t,” Harry whines. He whines like a child because he just wants to see Louis. “I can’t stop thinking about Louis and I just want to see him. He never came back and I didn’t… I have to… Niall, please.” He scoots closer and lets his forehead fall against Niall’s shoulder. Niall allows it. “Please, Ni. I _need_ to see him.”

He hears Niall sigh. “Gemma said he asked you not to do that, remember?” 

Harry sits up. “I’ll apologize. I’ll get on my fucking knees and I’ll apologize until I bleed blue. I will. But, please, just take me there. I have to see him.” 

Niall stares at him with pensive eyes, like he’s seeing Harry in an entirely new light. Like he’s thinking about what he said to Niall a few days ago. Like he knows Harry is also thinking about what he said a few days ago. 

Harry has _feelings_ for Louis. 

He’s always had feelings for Louis. From day one, Louis has gotten under his skin. From the first real conversation, Louis has made Harry so _angry,_ so fucking frustrated and aggravated and restless. He’s made Harry so anxious and worried for almost two weeks. Those first few days when he wouldn’t wake up, a part of Harry was afraid he never would — that Harry would never get a chance to know anything about him. So when he did wake up, Harry was on his fucking knees, taking away the pain of someone he didn’t even know. And now, two weeks later, Harry’s ready to do it again, willingly and consciously, because he _cares._ Because he _wants_ Louis to be safe. A week ago, he could barely stomach the thought of touching Louis, but right now… God, how he longs to do just that. They’re like the dichotomy between the moon and the sun, these two — Harry with his pale skin and Louis shining golden and warming up any place. He wishes to step out of his own shadow and reach for the sun. 

“Niall, please,” he whispers, voice shaking, and he is too. He’s shaking because it’s cold and because he’s missing Louis and because he’s Harry and he’s been a disaster for way too long. He needs something to ground him, something to tether him ashore because he feels like he’s drifting away. 

“Fine,” Niall sighs defeatedly. “At least wear something decent first.”

Harry looks down at himself and realizes he’s wearing nothing but a black robe. That would also explain the shaking. Feeling only slightly embarrassed and very on edge, instead of heading back to his own room to change, Harry just rifles through Niall’s clothes and finds a comfortable fabric. Niall doesn’t have anything supery soft on hand, but there’s a simple linen shirt with complimentary trousers. It’s not much, but it’ll do. And it’s not like he’ll be running into many people in the middle of the night. He’s only going to see Louis. 

_He’s going to see Louis._

The thought makes him jittery. He doesn’t know what to expect, but that’s nothing new with Louis. Whatever Harry expects of him, he always does the opposite, and this will be the first time Harry sees him anywhere that isn’t _his_ property. He’s going to Louis’ home, uninvited, in the middle of the night. For a moment, just for a moment, he reconsiders. He thinks about Gemma’s words to him, _Louis’_ words to him, and he reconsiders. Maybe he should wait a few more days. But his palms itch at the thought of not knowing anything about Louis for even a few more hours, let alone days, and he can’t. He can’t just sit here and wait for Louis to come to him because he knows that won’t happen. It chips at his heart, the certainty with which he knows that, but oh well. He’s been a right prick to Louis up until now and there really is no reason for Louis to forgive and forget, not when Harry hasn’t apologized and there isn’t anything to forgive. 

When he and Niall fall into step and head for the stables, a very small, well mannered part of him wonders if this trip requires him to bring a gift to Louis’ home, as it’s his first time visiting. Given the nature of their relationship and the circumstances, probably not, but he still wants to take something. It’s only polite. But he doesn’t know what he could take at this time because the kitchen won’t have anything fresh and he doesn’t know what his sisters like. Decor would be pointless because he doesn’t know what Louis’ home looks like, so he doesn’t want to take something and have it not be appropriate for the space. It’s just him and his bleeding heart, then. 

_Please don’t be angry with me,_ he thinks as he mounts Darling and she starts on their midnight rendezvous. 

▴ 

Louis’ home is… homey. It’s small, but homey. At least from what Harry can see on the outside in the darkness, it looks homey. There are plants lined near the front door and Harry thinks they look quite well tended to, especially for the winter. He wonders if this is something Louis enjoys or if it’s one of his sisters’ interests. He can just picture Louis looking after his plants and flowers, potting and repotting them just right to make sure they thrive in all weather conditions. The mental image of Louis watering his plants makes Harry feel soft all over. He glances over his shoulder at Niall, who’s leaning against Nova and has one hand running along Darling’s mane. 

Deep breath. 

He can do this. He’s the prince. Louis doesn't seem to care at all about that, but he’s still the prince. It means something to everyone else, even if it’s meaningless to Louis. 

Harry raps the metal knocker three times against the door. 

The night is really fucking cold and Harry’s shivering enough for his teeth to chatter. 

His heartbeat is… fast. Way too fast, but that’s how it’s always been with Louis. His heart has always been restless knowing Louis is nearby. 

He doesn’t know how long he waits before knocking again. He’s about to do it one more time before the door swings open and nearly hits him in the face. He stumbles back, reaching out desperately for something to steady himself but there’s nothing and he staggers back several steps. 

_Great going, idiot._

Louis’ sister stands at the threshold. Félicité. She came to visit Louis when he was at the palace. She’s dressed similarly to that day, but her hair is rumpled with sleep and she looks as incredibly confused as Harry feels out of place. She doesn’t bow like the last time they saw each other and Harry can’t tell if it’s because they’re not at the palace or because it’s the middle of the night. She steps onto her toes to look over Harry’s shoulder, probably wondering why Niall and two horses are standing in the middle of the street, but she doesn’t ask. Instead, she focuses on Harry. As tired as she looks, her blue eyes are alert. 

“May I help you?” she asks, voice ice cold in the space between them. 

“Yes, I’m here to see your brother.” 

She stares at him quizzically. “I’m sorry. Louis is asleep.” 

As should everyone be at this time. However… “I just need —”

The sound of something clattering to the ground interrupts him and it’s followed by a voice calling out, “Fizz? Everything's alright?” 

_Louis._ That’s Louis’ voice. Harry smiles at Félicité and says, “He’s awake.” 

“He doesn’t want to see you,” she returns, her voice steely and her eyes so fucking sharp. They’re like shards of blue ice. Harry can’t look away from her eyes, the way they remind him of ice forming around leaves in the gardens. Harry watches, mesmerized by the way the blue darkens around her pupils when she says, “He doesn’t want to see you, Your Highness. Go home and forget about my brother.” 

_Go home and forget about her brother,_ Harry tells himself, repeats it like a mantra in his head. _Go home and forget about her brother, go home and forget about her brother, go home and forget about her brother, go home and forget about her brother, go home and forget about her brother_ _—_

“Stop making his life hell.” The blue gets lighter further away from her pupils. 

_Stop making his life hell. Stop making his life hell. Stop making his life hell. Stop making his life hell. Stop making his life hell. Stop making his life hell —_

“Go home, Harry.” There’s a ring of gold around her irises. 

_Go home, Harry. Go home, Harry. Go home, Harry._

Harry takes a step back, still feeling enchanted by her eyes, and he thinks, _I need to go home._ He doesn’t want to, but he has to. He needs to go home because —

“Fizzy,” a voice breaks through the edges of his dazed state, “that’s enough.” 

For a split second, he wonders if he’s more intoxicated than he realized, but that’s not it. This isn’t the alcohol doing tricks on his mind. This is something else, something that has rendered his inhibitions useless entirely. 

That voice, though. It cuts through the sharp blue when it says again, “Don’t do that, Fizz. Let him be. I’ll be fine.” 

_Louis._

Harry squints, tries to make sense of what he’s seeing in the dim light until he can make out the familiar shape of Louis’ figure coming closer. There’s a blanket draped over and around his entire frame, so Harry can’t see anything underneath it. But he’s here. Louis is _here._ And he looks fine. He doesn’t look angry. He looks… he’s looking at Harry like he feels sorry for him. Strange. He walks right up to where Harry and Félicité are standing and sighs before reaching for Harry and pulling him inside. 

“You are insufferable,” is what he greets Harry with and it’s like some invisible cloak gets lifted from Harry’s eyes and everything is suddenly clearer. He’s not supposed to be here. He needs to go home. He has to go home and forget about Louis. 

“I need to — um. I have to, um.” He doesn’t know how to process and articulare what he knows he has to do. 

“Look what you did, Fizz,” Louis says to his sister. “His poor brain is broken.” 

“He had it coming,” Fizzy responds easily with a shrug. “Fucked around in your head too many times, didn’t he? Tosser.” 

Louis laughs. Louis _laughs_ like Harry has never heard before and it makes his heart swell but he still needs to go home. He has to. 

“Louis, I have to go home.” 

“Yes, you do,” Louis agrees, “but not like this. Fizzy, come on, love. Fix it.” 

Fix what? Harry stares at Félicité, who stares back with open disdain. She doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, but then her eyes get dark just like before and Harry’s enthralled by the transition of the colors and she says, “Forget what I said earlier. You don’t have to go home.” She stops talking, but that’s not all she wants to say. Something heavy hangs in the air as a gold ring forms in her eyes once again. “You don’t have to forget my brother,” she says, winces on the words like they taste sour in her mouth. 

Then she blinks and Harry feels like he’s been dropped into a bucket of ice water. 

Louis’ still there. 

“What the hell is happening?” Harry asks, feeling like he’s made of bricks. 

“You just got compelled. Twice,” Louis tells him. “Doesn't feel so good, does it?” 

Harry stares at Louis in baffled horror. Louis doesn’t look surprised, and neither does his sister, but Harry feels violently violated. It’s like someone reached inside his brain and moved all parts to the side just by a margin and everything feels out of place, but only so. No one else would be able to tell the difference, but Harry feels it. Everything feels different and _wrong_ and he stares, wide eyed, at Félicité. “What did you _do_ to me?” His voice comes out embarrassingly high and shaken, but that’s how he feels. Floating just above the ground, enough to feel as though he’s disconnected from reality. 

“I used slight compulsion on you,” Félicité responds — gloats, really. “Louis told me you’ve done it to him more than once, even when he specifically made you promise not to, so I thought it’s only fair I’d return the favor.” There’s not a hint of guilt or regret in her tone. She speaks to Harry the way Louis does — with absolutely no regard for the difference in their social status. “I entertained the idea of wiping Louis entirely from your memory, but lucky for you, I have more self control than you seem to.” 

That has Harry flinching and he doesn’t even know what it _means,_ but the mere concept of never knowing who Louis is and what he means to Harry is abhorrent in its very essence. “Why would you… what the fuck do you mean?” 

Félicité smiles, and it is so frighteningly similar to the way Louis smiles at Harry when he knows he has Harry backed in a corner. “I have the rare ability to reach inside your mind and scoop out little pieces of information, Your Highness.” The words chill Harry to the core and he knows it has nothing to do with the actual temperature. “It would drain me physically and mentally, but if I were so inclined, I could scratch out all trace of Louis from every thought you’ve ever had. I could leave so many blank spaces in your mind, Your Honor, that it would drive you insane. And you would never again harass my brother.”

“You can’t do that,” Harry utters in a broken screech. 

“I can,” Félicité disagrees calmly, “and I would, too, if it weren’t for my moral compass and my brother.” 

“You can’t,” Harry stammers pathetically. Forgetting Louis… he can’t even process the thought. He looks at Louis helplessly, who wraps an arm around his sister and pulls her away from Harry, stepping in front of her so he’s in between her and Harry. “You can’t let her do that,” he practically pleads. He can feel his breathing getting more and more erratic by the second and his hands are trembling where they hang uselessly by his sides. 

Louis’ eyes soften at just how utterly _sad_ this situation is. Harry — confident, self-assured crown prince — begging someone he doesn’t even know. He doesn’t recognize this part of himself, but he doesn’t know how to snap out of it. He doesn't know how to be his cocky self and not lose Louis. He didn’t realize until just now how _real_ the possibility of losing Louis is. 

“You can’t let her do that, please,” Harry whimpers. “I know I’ve been… I’ve been so rude. I know I have and I’m so sorry, Louis. I am. Truly. But, please, I can’t — I don’t think I can —”

“Good Lord, Fizzy, you’ve petrified him. Come on, sit down, Princeling.” Louis hooks an arm through Harry’s and drags him further inside the house. Behind them, Harry hears the sound of approaching footsteps and he turns on instinct to see Niall coming towards them. “I won’t lie, Niall, I expected better from you,” Louis comments. 

“Yeah, so did I. He’s persuasive, though, and I’m sorry.” He looks at Harry worriedly. “You don’t look so well, mate, let’s go home.” 

Harry needs a hammer to his head, perhaps. Louis’ arm is still looped through his and that’s making him feel things he isn’t accustomed to feeling around Louis, but there’s also the small detail that he was just _compelled_ by Louis’ sister, and the fact that Louis doesn’t seem angry with him. And, somehow, _Harry_ isn’t angry that he was just compelled. It could be because he’s in shock, or maybe because he’s drunk, but he thinks the alcohol left his system the mentioned Félicité invaded his mind. 

“Harry?” Niall presses the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead. “Come on, I’m taking you home.” 

“No.” He didn’t come here to just leave. Harry turns away from Niall and turns back to Louis, who’s looking at him with eyes softer than ever. His face is all shadows and dim lights, but Harry can still see his eyes are softer than they’ve ever been for him. “Can I, um, can I talk to you? Please.”

Louis shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t know. I said I don’t want to see you.” 

“I know,” Harry cuts in before Louis can say too much and shut him out. “You said to leave you alone and I told you I would. You said not to come looking for you and I’m still here in the middle of the night. I didn’t listen and I’m sorry,” he rattles on, “but, please, just give me a few minutes. Please, Louis.” The words barely fit through the cracks in his voice, but he can’t find it in himself to be ashamed. Whatever dignity he has, he doesn’t know where to find it right now and he doesn’t know if he wants to. 

Louis is silent for so long that Harry wonders if he even heard anything, but then he lets out a deep breath. “Fine,” he exhales. He addresses his sister with, “Go back to Lottie, she’ll wake up and worry if you aren’t there. I’ll be fine.” Félicité hesitates, clearly unsure whether or not she believes Louis. _“Go,”_ Louis urges with a small chuckle, “Prince Charming and I have a long and tenuous relationship, but I can handle him.”

Félicité rolls her eyes. “You have a week-long relationship.” 

Louis holds her by the shoulders and turns her around so she has her back to him. “Go back to bed, love. I’ll be fine.” 

There’s a momentary silence before Félicité looks over her shoulder and makes steely eye contact with Harry. “If you do anything to him again, I promise I won’t be so thoughtful next time.” Then she’s gone and Harry is left with Louis in front of him and Niall somewhere behind him. 

“Go home, Niall,” he says without looking back. “I’ll come back with Darling.” 

“Like hell I’m leaving you alone to roam the night,” comes Niall’s insulted response. “Go talk like twisted lovebirds and come right out.”

“We’re not —” He doesn’t know what they are. 

“I don’t care what you are and aren’t. I’m tired, so make it quick. Now _go.”_

Harry’s glad the room isn’t bright so no one can see the way his cheeks are burning up. Then he feels calloused fingers around his wrist and he’s being pulled further into the house, towards an open door, and then he’s following Louis into a bedroom that’s more bed than room. There’s a lamp by the bed and a small cupboard in one corner of the room, accompanied by a chair next to it and — Harry tears his eyes away from it and focuses on Louis standing in front of him. 

Now that they’re in a slightly brighter room and the light is hitting Louis’ face just right, Harry can see the new bruises around his right eye. It’s instinct when he takes three steps closer and reaches out, gently runs his knuckles along the dark skin and follows the touch with the pad of his thumb, lets his index finger unfurl so it sits next to Louis’ eye and presses into the sore skin. Louis’ eye twitches under the touch and Harry feels the faraway ache in his own face. 

“What happened?” Harry whispers in the marginal space between them. 

“What are you doing?” Louis dodges the question, but he doesn’t step away. 

Harry lets his own eyes travel from the bruises underneath his skin to Louis’ eyes and asks again, “What happened?” 

This time, again, Louis does what he does best and ignores Harry by closing his eyes. “You can’t. Harry, you can’t, God, can you just —”

With a sickening twist of his gut, Harry realizes what Louis must think he’s trying to do. “I’m not, Louis, I’m not doing that,” he promises, feeling slimy in his own skin. He lets his fingers wrap around the side of Louis’ neck and he shivers at the warm emanating from Louis’ skin, which makes no sense, but eventually, Louis opens his eyes again. It’s that same sea of blue Harry has found himself lost in time and time again over the last few days. “I’m only _asking_ you what happened,” he murmurs. 

“Why do you care?” Louis challenges, and it’s like they’re in a dance. Harry keeps trying to keep them in line and Louis keeps toeing out of it, doing everything he can to make them fall out of step because that’s what he’s always done. “If you’re here to tell me again about how you’re going to break our soulmate bond or whatever other shit you’ve decided on without me, well, it’s not happening. You’re stuck whether you like it or not.” 

That’s not what Harry came for, but he’s certainly thinking about it now. “I only came to see how you are,” he tells Louis truthfully, but he’s now fully fixated on what Louis just said. How can he not want to break the ugly bond between them? Does he sadistically _enjoy_ feeling Harry’s pain? Harry slips a little, falls a bit into the pattern they were in days ago. “I came to make sure you’re okay because it was making me _sick_ knowing you got hurt and I had to know you’re fine. I came to apologize for being such a nightmare, but I suppose you’re still as hotheaded as you were before you left to be a fucking hero.” Annoyance bubbles under his skin. “I knew you’d get hurt and you did, and _I_ felt it. Again. I’m sick of feeling it, I’m sick of feeling you everywhere I go.” 

Louis jerks back and Harry curls his fingers into fists so he doesn’t reach out again. “I didn’t realize being bonded to me makes you so _sick,_ Princeling. _I’m_ the one bleeding through my clothes and you think _you_ can feel that pain? Spare me the theatrics.” 

Harry grits his teeth. Hurting Louis wouldn’t do anything. Hurting Louis isn’t going to make him feel what Harry feels. He makes a concentrated effort to let his shoulders relax and says to Louis, “Hit me.” 

“What?” 

_“Hit me.”_ Harry braces himself for the impact he knows will come. Louis has to hate him enough to not pass up this opportunity. “You have _no_ idea what I feel when you go and get yourself cut open time and time again. So fucking hit me. Don’t hold back just because I’m the prince, darling.” Harry simpers. “You never have before, have you?” 

He doesn’t see it coming. One second Louis is staring at him blankly and the next second his fist is colliding with Harry’s jaw and nose, warm liquid trickling down Harry’s mouth and all the winter constellations looming behind his eyelids. The impact leaves him staggering into the wall and when his eyes open again, Louis is hunched over, which would explain the sudden spikes of phantom pain along Harry’s black. The blanket has fallen to the floor around Louis and he’s wearing Harry’s yellow shirt. He’s wearing Harry’s shirt and there’s Harry’s velvet jacket on the chair next to the cupboard — the same jacket he covered Louis with when he could hardly move. That’s what he noticed when he walked into the room and that’s what he looks at now after realizing that Louis is still wearing _his_ clothes. 

Something about that makes Harry feel hot even though it’s freezing cold. 

“You’re wearing my clothes.” The words slip out dripping in blood because Harry bit his tongue and the inside of his fucking cheek. 

“Get out,” Louis rasps without looking up. “Get the hell out of my house.” 

No. Not a chance in _hell_ is Harry leaving like this. He crouches on the floor in front of Louis and tangles his fingers in Louis’ hair, and it thrills him when Louis doesn’t immediately shake his hand off. He gently tugs Louis’ head up and wipes at his bleeding mouth before saying, “Do you feel that, Louis?” With his other hand, he takes hold of one of Louis’ and digs it into his own mouth where he can almost feel his pulse throbbing. When Louis flinches, Harry smirks. “That’s me. You’re feeling me. You said you aren’t mine and you don’t want to be mine, but you see how that’s a lie? I feel you everywhere you go, Louis. You _are_ mine, just as much as I am yours for as long as this bond between us is intact.” 

Louis’ eyes are transfixed on Harry’s bloody mouth and Harry is hyper aware of how close they are. He can taste his own blood and he wonders if Louis can smell it in the distance between them. Harry remembers the scent of Louis’ blood lingering in the air when he cut away the shirt Louis was wearing. Harry remembers how it felt to wipe away Louis’ blood with his bare skin and he’s suddenly tempted to do something. He has one hand in Louis’ hair and the other holding Louis’ hand and he just — he wants a taste of something more, so he lets go of Louis entirely and gets to his feet. 

“I’m not what you need or want, so just let me free, Louis Tomlinson,” he whispers in a last broken plea. “You got me down on my knees and I’m begging you the only way I know how. Your pain is worse than my own to bear, so, please, have mercy. Let me walk away.” 

He doesn’t wait to hear what Louis has to say in response, if anything. Part of him wants to help Louis off the floor and get him situated in bed, but he can’t stand to be in the room any longer. He can’t be with _Louis_ any longer, not when he can taste his own blood and can’t tell where his pain stops and Louis’ begins. They’re intertwined in a way that makes Harry unsure of where they disconnect and it’s disconcerting, so he walks out of Louis’ room. He keeps his head down when passing by Niall, but there’s a reason Niall is his best friend; he stops Harry by the arm and tilts his head up silently, eyes narrowing when he sees the drying blood. 

Niall curses. “I’ll kick his fucking ass, just say the word.” 

“Don’t,” Harry shakes his head. He doesn’t need Louis and Niall fighting and it wasn’t Louis’ fault anyway. Harry asked for this. “Let’s just go home.” 

The alcohol has worn off and all he feels is Louis’ fist connecting with his face and he just wants to be in his own bed. Niall looks like he’s still contemplating bursting through Louis’ door, but decides not to when he finally lets go of Harry and leads the way out. So much for Harry apologizing. 

▴▴▴

The next day, Harry wakes up well past noon. In fact, he wakes up to his sister shaking him awake and a trolley full of fresh breakfast next to his bed. It’s strange to be woken up like this, especially after the last couple of weeks they’ve had. It’s not customary for Gemma to come in here and wake Harry in the mornings, but she’s here now, incessantly tapping the side of Harry’s face with one annoying finger. 

“Go away, Gemma,” he groans into his pillow because, yes, while he’s happy that she’s back in the comfort and safety of their home, she didn’t have the eventful night that he had. All he wants to do is stay in his bed and hide away from everything for at least a little while longer. 

“You know, I assumed it would be you bringing me a fresh hot breakfast this morning,” Gemma muses out loud, completely ignoring Harry’s complaints. “I mean, I _am_ the one who got kidnapped and all, so I figured I’d get special treatment from you for maybe a day or two, but instead _I’m_ bringing _you_ breakfast and it’s halfway through the day.” Gemma tugs at his hair. “Come on, I know you didn’t drink enough to still be sleepy. Right, Prim?” 

There’s a soft sound of agreement from Harry’s dog. Traitor, that one. 

Harry flips onto his back and he hears Gemma gasp. “What the hell happened to your face? Did you fall in your sleep?” 

Harry can only imagine what he must look like at the moment. Part of his face is most likely bruised, or getting close to it — he can feel the ache when he moves his jaw. He doesn’t know how to explain it to Gemma, though. How to explain Louis. He knows he has to. Apart from Niall, Gemma is the one person who knows most about Harry and this isn’t something he plans on keeping secret from her, but he just doesn’t know where to begin. Harry eyes the fruits in the trolleys and they look so inviting, but he feels disgusting wearing Niall’s clothes from last night and he reeks of alcohol and Louis and blood. He says to Gemma, “I need a bath. A very long one.”

Gemma says, “I’ll give you ten minutes.” 

Harry throws back the duvet and sits up, scowling at his sister in the process. “It’ll take me at least that long only to get the bath ready. Haven’t you got anything else to do?” 

Gemma curiously eyes the injured side of Harry’s face and he gives himself a moment to take in her appearance. Unlike Harry, she looks radiant in her beige dress. She looks just how she always used to, with slightly rosy cheeks and happy eyes. She looks well rested, which can’t at all be said about Harry. 

“It’s good to have you back, Gems.” Harry pulls her in for a hug. It is good. “But seriously. Go have a stroll in the gardens or something. I need to wash off all the filth from last night.” 

“What happened?” Gemma asks, genuine concern seeping into her voice. 

It all comes rushing back to him — the compulsion from Félicité, the disturbingly disorienting state it left him in, the way Louis held his wrist and the way Louis looked into his eyes, the way Louis let Harry touch him and the way thought Harry was trying to compel him, the way Louis said _no_ to Harry and the way he didn’t hesitate before hitting Harry. His jacket in the corner of Louis’ room comes back to him and he wonders why Louis has it. Why did he take it with him when the last time Harry saw that in the palace, it was hanging in the armoire of the room Louis stayed in. Why did Louis make it a point to take that jacket with him when it isn’t even his to take? Why did Louis take something of Harry’s and keep it in his room? Why was Louis sleeping in Harry’s shirt? 

“Harry?” 

Harry gets out of bed so he doesn’t have to look her in the eyes or see her when he answers. He heads for his own armoire. “I went to see Louis last night,” he says with his back to Gemma. Yellow would be nice to wear, but it reminds him of Louis now, so that won’t do. He pulls out a long, magenta shirt. “He punched me in the face.” 

He hears Gemma get on her feet and then she’s right by Harry, touching her face and making him wince at the sharp ache. “Is he out of his mind?” she seethes, eyes absolutely ablaze at the thought of someone hitting Harry. It makes him smile a little. 

“I asked him to do it,” Harry tells her, like that makes it all okay. 

Gemma stares at him, incredulous. “Are _you_ insane? What the hell, Harry?” Harry can almost practically see individual parts of her brain moving frantically, trying to keep up with and make sense of anything he's saying. 

Harry heads for the bathroom. “I’m hoping it made him understand what kind of hell he put me through for two weeks,” he calls back to her. “Since we’re soulmates and everything.” 

“You’re _what?”_ Gemma repeats. 

Harry shuts himself in the bathroom before she can start questioning him. He can just picture the bafflement on her face. She knows, of course. She’s known for some time now that he has a person, but there’s no way she ever imagined that person to be Louis. No one did. Harry never saw Louis barging into his life like this and he doesn’t know what to do about it. He doesn’t know what to do and that may be the most frustrating part of it all. He has never been shy to do things, has always taken comfort in his status as the crown prince that allows him to do essentially anything he wants to. Right now, though, he doesn’t know _what_ to do and it’s enough for him to feel alien in his own skin. 

He went to apologize to Louis last night and instead he came home with a bruised jaw. 

Maybe he can write an apology and have it sent to Louis. Perhaps that will allow him to get his thoughts out coherently without getting lost in Louis and his feelings. 

There’s banging on the bathroom door. 

“I hope you know I’m not leaving you alone until you explain everything,” Gemma’s voice travels through the door. “Just gonna sit here and wait.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “You can go and ask Mum, she already knows and it’ll be quicker.” 

Gemma snorts. “What are you? Chopped liver? Come outside and explain what I missed.” 

Harry knows he can’t lay in the bath forever, or even for as long as he’d like to, so he gets out and dresses himself. He doesn’t know how cold it is outside, but it’s warm enough inside that he doesn’t _need_ to dress in layers. He likes it, but he steps out of the bathroom in just the shirt he picked earlier and loose trousers to compliment the light color. “You’re a pain,” he tells Gemma when he finds her sitting on his bed, Prim’s head in her lap. 

“Excuse you,” she scrunches up her nose, “Louis is clearly the pain, not me.” 

The literal meaning of that _almost_ makes Harry wince. Almost. “More than I care to admit,” he mutters. 

“What happened?” Gemma asks. “How do you know?” 

Harry goes to sit by her and pops a strawberry into his mouth. Where to begin... 

“Do you remember that night,” he asks her, “you said when those men came into your room, Louis was there?” Gemma nods, like she’d ever forget. “He told me all this, too, you know. He, um.” If it were possible for him to vomit, he probably, so it’s a good thing he hasn’t really eaten anything. “He was in your room and he told us what happened, but we realized his father was involved in everything, so we didn’t know whether or not to believe what he said. I didn’t know if I wanted to believe him.” The fact that it was only _two weeks ago_ fucks with Harry’s head in a way he can’t quite articulate, but Gemma doesn’t need to know the constant tumultuous warring in his mind. “Well. He got hurt that night just like you said and I felt it downstairs. I felt every single hit he took and it had me on my knees, Gems. I think I blacked out for a moment that night, but I can’t really remember. Like when it all happened. And then that night...” Harry has to swallow around the heavy lump that’s formed in his throat. “Gemma, I woke up _screaming._ I had to go down to the infirmary and ask Arfa to sedate me. It was so much _pain,_ Gemma, I thought I was being ripped apart piece by piece. She had to sedate me so I could sleep.” 

Gemma squeezes his hand. “What happened?” 

“He came back,” Harry chuckles, but it’s devoid of humor and sounds cutting to his own ears. Sounds nothing like himself. “He got away from them and he came right back here thinking we’d treat him well and help him figure out how to get you back. Or something.”

“I’m guessing that’s not what happened?” 

“No.” Something claws at Harry’s chest when he remembers that night, the anguish he felt through Louis. He only felt it then; Louis is still suffering the pain of those injuries. Harry gnaws at his trembling lips so he doesn’t cry when he tells Gemma, “No, they questioned him about what happened and where he’d been. He didn’t remember a lot of it and he was already hurt, but they thought he was lying. They — Bryar, that’s his name — he thought Louis was intentionally hiding information about you, so he —” He can’t stop his eyes from welling up and he can’t stop the tears that fall and he doesn’t stop Prim when she climbs into his lap. “They whipped him, Gemma. They slashed his back open like he’s a dead animal and I felt every lash. Arfa had to keep him unconscious for days so the pain would be somewhat bearable for him and I still feel it sometimes. _He_ still feels it. He hasn’t fully healed yet.” Saying the words out loud like this tears open something inside of him, something so primal, and he just wants to keep Louis safe. That’s all he wants. 

Gemma scoots closer to him and puts an arm around him. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. 

Harry lets her hold him because he feels like he’s falling apart, one piece at a time. “No, I’m sorry. He told me. He told all of us and we didn’t believe him. _I_ didn’t believe him and I treated him so horribly, Gemma. You don’t know. All he’s tried to do is help you and help me, and all I’ve done is walk all over him.” 

She nudges his shoulder awkwardly. “Is that why he hit you last night?” 

Prim squirms out of his grasp and jumps off the bed. “I told him to do that. He...” Harry doesn’t know how to explain this part without making both him and Louis out to be absolute pricks. The more he thinks about it, the more ridiculous it gets in his head. “He said he won’t have the bond severed because, surely, it can’t be _that_ bad for me to be tied to him, so I told him to hit me. Just so he could feel even a fraction of what I feel every time he gets injured and is in pain for days on end. He said no to me,” Harry presses on, “just like he always does, and I just lost sight of myself. I told him to hit me and he did it. Then he told me to leave.” 

Gemma pulls away from him, brows pulled together in a look of utter confusion. “You glossed over, like, five major details there, pal. What?” 

Harry sighs. Right. He has to do _this_ again. “I’m going to sever our soulmate bond. I can’t live with it, Gemma, it’s hell for me. It’s my own personal hell and I have a way out, so I’m taking it. Louis’ being difficult because that’s how he’s always been with me. Some weird soulmate shit, or maybe he’s just naturally insolent, I haven’t decided yet.” 

Gemma tuts. She leans back with her elbows on Harry’s rumpled bed and she _tuts._ “I’m gone for two weeks and you fall in love.”

If it were possible for necks to snap simply by turning, Harry’s would have already snapped from the sheer speed that he turned to look at his sister with. “Excuse me?”

“You’re in love,” Gemma says simply, like she’s telling the weather and not sending cosmic reverberations through Harry’s world. “In love or getting there, somewhere along the way. It’s in your eyes.” 

“What in the goddamn hell are you talking about?” 

“Harry, you called him _insolent,_ and, yeah, not a great thing to call someone, but the fondness in your eyes could melt the sun itself. Get a grip.” 

_In love._

_In love with Louis._

_Harry in love with Louis._

“I’m not in love with Louis,” he mumbles, but it comes out all high pitched and croaky, and Gemma raises her eyebrows again. Harry clears his throat. “I’m _not_ in love with Louis,” he repeats firmly. 

“If I tell you something, will you admit the truth to me?” 

Harry narrows his eyes. “What?”

Gemma shakes her head. “Promise first that you’ll admit you have feelings for him.” 

“Having feelings and being in love are two entirely different things,” Harry argues. 

“Ha!” Gemma sits up eagerly, eyes lit anew with glee. “So there _are_ feelings.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I don’t understand them, but, sure.” What the hell could Gemma possibly know about Louis at this point that Harry doesn’t? “Get on with it, then, what is it?” 

“Well.” Gemma smiles, but then it slides right off. “I didn’t know why he did it then, it made no sense to me and I still don’t really understand, but I think I have a better idea now.” Harry waits anxiously for her to get to the damn point, his lips raw at this point from how much he’s bitten them. “He picked a fight with someone,” Gemma says finally. “One of the guards. Couldn’t understand for the life of me why, because he doesn’t strike me as the needlessly violent type, but he definitely got someone to hit him square him in the face.” 

It all clicks immediately. Harry doesn’t have to think about it for even a moment. Everything falls into place at once as he recalls the random pain that bloomed across his face and spread down his back when Louis was gone. He did it on purpose. He was pissed the fuck off at Harry when he left and he got himself hurt on purpose to get back at Harry. He wanted to hurt Harry, so he hurt himself, because what better way to drive Harry out of his mind than hurting Louis when Harry doesn’t know where Louis is? He would be ashamed of himself for not getting it sooner, but he clearly isn’t as sadistic as Louis is. 

“Bastard. I’ll kill him,” Harry promises, and the words are a lie before they’re even formed. 

“You two have a lot to work through,” Gemma comments. As if that isn’t the understatement of the fucking century. “Eat this damn food that’s gone cold now and go talk to him. Then help me plan a party.” Gemma grins, this time with real light in her eyes. “My last one was ruined, so this will be a night no one will ever forget.” 

Harry doesn’t know if he’s ready to talk to Louis just yet. His ego won’t allow him to step outside the palace, or maybe even his room, with the blooming bruise on his jaw, so he’ll have to make do from here. 

“The cats missed you,” he tells Gemma, and that’s enough to put aside all talk of Louis Tomlinson for now. 

▴

He spends the next several hours trailing after Gemma as she looks for this and that without really ever telling Harry _what_ she’s looking for. He learns that Giovanna and Francis have been kicked out of Delea — a unanimous decision made by Anne, Liam, and Gemma. What Liam chooses to do with them after he goes back to Novac is up to him, but Harry remembers their conversation in the council room. He wonders if Liam will actually take the crown from his parents and he wonders if that will finally be the catalyst for Merida to tell Liam the truth about their parentage. He doubts it, considering how adamant she was when they last spoke privately, but she did come clean to Francis and Giovanna. She stood up to them when she was given a chance, so perhaps this inevitable change will lead to something between her and Liam, as well. For the time being, she stays in Delea with Liam. 

Gemma also shares another solo decision with everyone: she and Liam will not be getting married immediately. They’re not calling it quits, but she doesn’t feel like rushing into anything right now after everything that happened. Liam, surprisingly (or unsurprisingly), doesn’t mind. It’s not like he would’ve been able to force Gemma into marrying him, but he doesn’t mind that she wants to take her time and replan everything regarding the wedding. He’s on board with her, which is nice to see. She deserves to have a partner who supports her through not only the good times, but especially through the rough patches. 

So now with the evil spawns out of Delea and the wedding on hold, Gemma has dedicated herself to planning a celebratory ball in honor of her own return home. 

Before that, though, Gemma goes to visit Nadia’s family and Harry tags along with her, which he regrets when he gets there. It’s not that Harry forgot or didn’t realize that Nadia had an entire life outside of the palace — it’s just that she spent so much her time in the room next to Gemma, became such a permanent fixture in Gemma’s life, that she and Gemma were almost always together and Harry sort of forgot that they do exist without each other. It all hits him when he’s sitting in Nadia’s home, surrounded by her three brothers and younger sister, who look at him like he might be the reason they haven’t seen their sister in so long. It’s when he sees Gemma hug Nadia’s mother, Alaine, that he has to blink back his own tears. Harry can’t bring himself to meet any of their gazes. Gemma has a bond with the family that Harry doesn’t and he’s glad for it, in a sense, because he doesn’t think he could sit here and hold Nadia’s father’s hand as heavy teardrops spill from the man’s eyes. 

Harry stands alone near a window, despite Alaine’s numerous attempts to get him to sit down. He stays off to her side, away from everyone else because he doesn’t know what to say to the people who lost their daughter and sister. He didn’t see Gemma for a matter of days and it was enough to make him irrationally angry; he can’t imagine knowing he would never be able to see his sister again. 

Still, though, standing alone isn’t enough. Not much time passes before someone joins him. A girl, about his age. She introduced herself as Mara when Harry and Gemma arrived, but didn’t explain her relationship to Nadia and Harry didn’t think it’s his place to intrude. She went to put Nadia’s little sister to sleep and now she’s standing near Harry, but the way her eyes are trained on Gemma makes Harry curious about who she is.

“Go ahead,” she says and Harry doesn’t realize she’s addressing him until she turns to look at him. “You have something you want to ask, so just ask it.” Harry doesn’t miss the lack of royal title at the end of her sentence. Somehow, he doesn’t really care. 

“It’s not a big deal,” he says. 

An emotion Harry can’t decipher settles onto her dark features. “Do it for my sake, Your Honor. Give me a chance to talk about her.”

Okay. Harry crosses his arms and asks, “How did you know Nadia?” 

“She was my best friend,” Mara says, eyes sliding away from Harry and back to Gemma. “I loved her. I always loved her, but at some point between always and last year, I fell in love with her. Then I lost her.” 

That’s certainly not what Harry was expecting and it makes his heart twist in the strangest way. Nadia spent years at the palace and not once did Harry know she was seeing someone — not that he’s the person she would’ve come to, but even Gemma never mentioned anything about a significant other. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells Mara. “I didn’t know.”

“Neither did she,” Mara says and her eyes, though still trained on Gemma, are vacant. Harry’s sure that whatever she’s seeing is not in this room. “I know she loved your sister, everyone does. I just didn’t realize Nadia loved her enough to die for her.” 

And that's definitely not what Harry was expecting, but it’s impossible to miss the implication — and the accusation — in Mara’s words. 

“Gemma didn’t know,” Harry defends his sister immediately. He knows Gemma and there is no way she could have known this. There’s no way she could know this and not drown in the guilt. 

Mara chuckles, but it’s short and almost scornful. “No one knew, Your Highness. I doubt Nadia knew, either, but I did. Sometimes you’re not aware of your own feelings, but that doesn’t mean no one else is. I knew her better than anyone. I know she loved Her Highness more than she understood and she let it kill her.” 

It’s a lot to wrap his head around and it’s not like he hasn’t wondered about it. He has. Why would Nadia try to fight multiple men when she wasn’t trained to fight? Harry spars with Niall every now and again, but even he wouldn’t be naive enough to think he can beat that many people, especially knowing they were at least somewhat skilled in combat. Why did Nadia stand between Gemma and all those men? 

Harry feels sick. 

“Will you… Are you going to tell Gemma?” 

Mara shakes her head. “No. It's not mine to tell.” 

“But —” He doesn’t know what to say. He watches as Gemma talks to Nadia’s parents, as the boys sit next to their mother. “Why did you tell me?” 

Mara locks eyes with Harry. “You asked. No one else has. I told you my story, not Nadia’s.” 

And, again, Harry doesn’t know what to say to that so he just nods. That’s like what Merida said, too, isn’t it? That this isn’t her story, so she doesn’t need to tell him everything about herself. What is Nadia’s story, then? Does it simply end with buried feelings, literally and figuratively? Maybe he can tell Gemma the truth, but he doesn’t know how that conversation would go. Would he only be adding to her grief by putting this on her shoulders now? 

Perhaps some stories do end just like that, in the middle of a page and without a concluding sentence.

▴

Eventually, despite his best efforts, Harry’s thoughts return to Louis. He can’t shake the feeling that he fucked up in a colossal way last night and he knows he has to set things right, so when they come back to the palace, he locks himself in the library. Apart from shelves and shelves of countless books, the library also has a desk area perfect for writing, so that’s where Harry gets comfortable. Talking to Louis never seems to get anywhere because they’re both stubborn in their own ways, so writing it is. He picks out a long and sturdy piece of gold parchment, one decorated with the official Delea seal, and begins writing with black ink. He knows what he wants to say to Louis. The problem arises when he’s in front of Louis and he’s saying things to Harry that settle inside of Harry’s skin and they keep chasing circles around one another. 

_Dear Louis,_ he begins, then throws the parchment aside. Louis is not _dear._ They aren’t that close. 

_Louis,_ he tries again, his fingers forming the letters forming with unfamiliar unease. _You and I have trouble communicating effectively when we are both face to face, so I thought I’d try writing to you. I hope you’ll take the time to read this carefully._

_First, I’d like to apologize for my behavior and thank you for all that you’ve done to bring my sister back home. My mum and Gemma are the only family I have, so I cannot possibly put into words how much it means to me that you risked your life time and time again to bring Gemma back to us. I may not be the best at expressing it, but I am eternally grateful. And in that line, I am also deeply sorry for the way I’ve treated you. All you’ve done this entire time is look out for my sister, and in turn, I’ve been nothing but a massive prat to you. In my defense, my sister’s life was in danger and your father clearly had a part in it, so I didn’t know how much that implicated you. I didn’t know how much I could trust you, and if I had to do it again, I’d like to say that I’d do better, but I simply don’t know. I don’t know that I could put a hunch of someone’s innocence over the very real threat to the safety of my family and I hope you can understand that. I know you have sisters that you look after and I think you, too, would do anything to keep them safe. All I ask is that you try to assess the situation from my perspective._

_Second, I think I owe you several apologies for the lies I’ve told and the secrets I’ve kept from you. You deserved to know about the soulmate bond from the moment I realized it’s there. I don’t want to keep giving excuses for the way I’ve acted, but I’d like a chance to explain myself to you. That’s bizarre in a way, because I’m the crown prince and you’re simply a former worker, but I want nothing more than an opportunity to explain my actions. Part of me thought that if you knew about the soulmate connection, you might try to use that to gain an upper hand over me — please know this was before I knew I could trust you. My first instinct was to do whatever I could to help my sister and, on my end, there wasn’t much. I felt essentially useless. As time passed and I realized you and I were on the same side, I didn’t know how to bring it up to you. I made arrangements to have the bond severed without discussing it with you and I apologize. I’ve been told off for it by more than one person. I know I should have talked to you first. I’m not the only one affected by this bond and you have a say in it as much as I do. I want to talk about it. Please. Talk to me._

_I’m also sorry for showing up at your home in the middle of the night, after you specifically asked me not to do that. I’m sorry about a lot of things and I’m sorry I haven’t been able to say it to your face. I’m not great at dealing with feelings I don’t understand and you, Louis, you are a feeling I don’t understand. I don’t get you. You’re in my skin and I want you out, but I think I’ll lose a part of me if that happens and I don't understand. Help me understand._

_You may think this letter to be cowardly, as I’ve been unable to voice my feelings in person and you may be correct. Maybe it’s selfish, but I’d like to look at it differently. You see, when I say anything to you, I can lie about it. I can deceive you in a thousand different ways and you would be none the wiser, so I’m stepping out of my own comfort zone. I’m writing to you the most honest words I have to offer and I am making them yours in the most physical and tangible way I know how. Hold them in your hands, feel the texture of them with your fingers, allow the scent of them to fill your lungs. They are, after all, yours. That way, perhaps, I’ll make a space for myself in your heart._

_I really do hope you’re well, Louis. Difficult as it is to admit out loud, I think part of me misses you. Gemma is hosting a celebratory masquerade ball in four days, open to all residents of Delea. Please do come. I will have seamstresses sent to your place, so your sisters can have dresses made to their liking. Anything they want, it’s theirs._

_I’ll wait for you._

_— Harry_

Before folding the parchment and sealing it inside a russet red envelope, he sprays the roll with a rose fragrance. Leaving the letter tucked between the pages of an old book, he strolls to one of the many vases lining the halls of the palace, looking for the right flower. There isn’t a large variety to choose from this time of year, but he finds a pale blue one tucked in between a cluster of white roses. He plucks it out carefully; the petals are only just beginning to shrivel at the edges, but it’ll do the job. Once back in the library, he places the flower on the closed flap of the envelope and secures it shut with a silver wax seal. 

He can’t deliver the letter himself and he doesn’t know who he trusts for the job, so he goes to the one person he knows won’t turn him down, not for this. Arfa isn’t thrilled to be playing the messenger, but she does smile at the clear effort Harry has put into the presentation of the parcel and gives him a knowing look. What she thinks she knows, Harry can only guess. She’s apparently more in tune with his emotions than he. Everyone seems to be. 

Maybe Louis is, too, and that’s a disconcerting thought. 

▴▴▴

The next two days are spent actively _not_ thinking about Louis, which, of course, means that they’re spent thinking about Louis. There’s no written response from him, not that Harry was expecting one, but there’s just _nothing._ Not even acknowledgement that he received Harry’s letter, let alone read it. Harry even visits Arfa and asks her if she has heard anything from Louis and she says yes, but not about Harry. It shouldn’t hurt because Harry is the one who walked away from their last interaction, but it still stings. Louis asked him to leave and Harry left, so why is there an emptiness where there should be nothing at all? 

In his attempts to _not_ think about Louis, Harry talks to Niall and learns that the priestess he found actually resides in Delea, in an old temple on the outskirts of Eroda. He’s tempted to go and visit her, but he restrains himself. This is not another thing he wants to do without Louis and set back any progress they may be in the process of making. So he learns what he can about the priestess from Niall: she’s young, as far as priestesses go, she’s not a Delea native but has been living by the temple for years now. She has no family around her, from what intel Niall gathered, and she’s most open to visitors when she knows they’re coming. There are people who think of her as an oracle, though Harry has no interest in learning what that means. Not right now, anyway. All he can think about now is Louis and the red string that ties their souls together. He wonders how strong it is, how much entanglement it can weather before fraying beyond repair. He wonders how close he and Louis are to that point, if that point even exists. 

He spends a lot of time thinking about what he wants to wear to the ball. Louis will be there. There’s nothing to confirm that and there’s a good chance he won’t show, just because it’ll be in character with Louis’ tendency to defy orders, but Harry's optimistic. The party isn’t for him or even held by him. It’s Gemma’s party and Louis has shown great loyalty to her, so Harry knows he’ll come, even if it is only out of support for Gemma. But Harry poured his heart out in that letter — it has to mean something, even to Louis. It means too much to Harry and there’s no point in denying it now. There never has been, not when his feelings are so fucking strong and apparently so obvious to everyone but himself. He cares about Louis in a way he doesn’t understand, or maybe doesn’t want to understand, and that should be enough. That should be where his thoughts stop, but it isn’t. They go beyond, ensnare around Gemma’s words from days ago. 

_In love or getting there... It’s in your eyes._

Harry could be in love with Louis. He doesn’t know what it would be like, considering he has never been _in_ love before. He loves people, sure — loves his mother and sister and Niall. Loves his dog, loves the cats that lounge around the palace more leisurely than Harry does. He loves Darling. He _cares_ about people. He cares about Arfa and he cares about Merida. He cared about Nadia. Love and care are different, though, in his mind. He doesn’t _love_ everyone he cares about. He’d do anything for the people he loves, doesn’t think there are any boundaries he wouldn’t cross for them, but that’s not the case with people he simply cares about. He knows, if it came down to it, he’d walk across burning coals for Niall, but he’d fail if asked to do the same for someone he doesn’t love. It’s selfish and it’s callous, but there are too many people in the world and he has a lot of love to give, but giving it to too many people would drain him. His love is boundless for those he loves, but he doesn’t know what it is to be _in_ love. 

_You know you would do despicable things for Louis if you had to,_ part of him whispers. _You were ready to kill a man for him before you even knew you_ cared. 

So, maybe, he loves Louis. There isn’t much he wouldn’t do for Louis, he can admit that to himself now. 

Perhaps the difference between love and in love is as simple as where it is. Harry’s love for Niall is evasive, intangible, and it hovers around him. His love for Louis sings in his bloodstream. Louis lives under his skin, soul infused with his and, perhaps, that is all. 

Given time, maybe, Harry can be in love with Louis. 

▴▴▴

The day of the masquerade ball, Harry feels a buzz in his bones. There’s a humming, a constant reminder that he gets to see Louis in just a few hours. There’s a thrumming energy surrounding the entire palace, making the whole place come alive in a way it hasn’t in a while. Harry watches as it slowly transforms. The main hall is where the magic really happens: the velvet curtains adorned with flashes of flowers and twinkling golden lights, ivory columns wrapped in garlands of snowdrops and rosy pink hellebores, every corner of the room strategically littered with white and pink flowers from the greenhouse. The centerpiece chandelier shines brighter than it does most days and it casts a soft golden glow across the entire room. The ceiling is... breathtaking — billowing arcs of white chiffon interlacing around the center and surrounding chandeliers, creating stunning pathways for the light to travel through. The tables outlining the room are dressed up in white, silky fabric, each with a vase in the middle filled with an array of soft flowers. Harry stubbornly, much to Gemma’s dismay, insists on having scillas in the vases. Blue, specifically. The night is for her, but she knows it means something to him, too. 

Everything _shimmers._

Surrounding rooms are decorated in a similar manner, but they don’t hold a candle to the enchanting beauty of the main hall. 

As evening draws nearer, Harry finds himself in the bath, preparing for the night. He bathed earlier in the day, right before he had breakfast with his mum and sister, but he’s back in the water once again, basking in its lavender scent. He’s nervous. It’s not a feeling he has often, but he’s fucking nervous to see Louis. If Louis’ here tonight, he knows they’ll have to talk. He knows Louis will have read his letter and he can’t take back any of it and it’s not that he wants to, but there’s something about the finality of writing words down. You can’t make them go away. You can douse the paper in bleach or water, you can throw it in an open flame, but it won’t make the words go away. The ink may bleed and the paper may burn, but the essence of the words can’t be erased. 

Everything Harry wrote to Louis, it belongs to the blue eyed boy now. Every admission, every confession, every apology — it’s all Louis’. 

Harry can spill lies from his mouth and compel the truth away from people’s minds, but he cannot take back the words he gave to Louis. It’s frightening, but there’s something liberating in the notion, too. He’s trying to do the right thing, by himself and by Louis. Brutal honesty seems like a fair place to start.

It takes Harry a while to get ready, longer than it usually would. He’s not a big believer of superstition and neither is Gemma, so they’ve both decided to wear the same colors they wore that cursed night. Break the cycle or whatever. So Harry takes his time in front of the mirror. It’s a celebration of his sister’s return, so he wants to do it right. There are palettes of powder in front of him and Harry covers his lids with a vibrant mix of pink and reds, brings it all along his waterline, and leaves a dusting of shimmery golden on his eyelids. And just because he can, he uses black kohl to line his eyes, as well, until he’s satisfied. The green of his eyes looks brighter, sharper, against the bold reds and black and Harry smiles to himself. He looks good. With a touch of extra blush on his cheeks, he looks fantastic. His jaw still has some bruising, but Harry doesn’t care to hide it. 

Once he puts on the pastel gold sheer blouse and covers it with the mahogany red coat that trails behind him, he has no doubt he’s going to have every eye in the room on him. It’s his favorite part of these elegant events. People have a chance to wear the most extravagant clothes, but they still choose to toe the line and hardly ever cross it. All the men in their plain and _safe_ outfits... appalling. There’s a reason Harry always stands out and is the talk of the party, every single time. Gemma’s competitive nature would be a problem, if only she was as committed to being as bold and outrageous as Harry is. Not only is the coat _long,_ it’s also sparkling with gold down the length of its entire back. Delicate golden patterns handwoven with various shades of thin gold threads, creating a mesmerizing web. 

His mask is of a golden base, the outline of it decorated in bright red and burgundy, and it’s gorgeous — the swirly pattern layered into the gold and the intoxicating interplay of different beads along the edges, but it’s the right corner of the mask that truly stuns: a blood red rose with metallic gold leaves, small, protruding stems with tiny golden rosebuds just off the edge of his right eye. Disheveled feathers in dark crimsons and golds flare out from the top left edges and when Harry ties the mask on his face... even he finds it absolutely beautiful. 

Feeling confident, he strides out of the room after giving a cuddle to his very sleepy puppy. He has half a mind to take her with him, but that many people would only stress her out and she just looks so fucking adorable curled up on Harry’s bed. 

There are guards everywhere. Harry’s almost certain Niall called in every single man on his roster tonight, if the sheer number of guards in uniform is anything to go by. He doesn’t know what the outside of the palace looks like in terms of security, but he can imagine. There will be no risks taken tonight and no one’s commands followed besides Niall’s. 

As Harry comes down the spiral staircase and heads the ballroom, he’s once again lost in the beauty of the room. This is his home and it looks absolutely otherworldly. The carpet leading into the room is littered with flower petals and everyone nods and bows as Harry walks by them. He smiles at everyone in return and keeps an eye out for his mother and sister. Everyone’s wearing masks and he knows it won’t be easy to find people, but he still looks for a pair of blue eyes. Now that he’s here and he has no idea what Louis is wearing, he has no way to know _who_ Louis is — not unless he strangely stares at everyone and picks apart their features from underneath the masks that obscure their faces. He knows he stands out because of the marvelous train on his coat and everyone recognizes that as something the crown prince would wear. 

Gemma’s easy enough to spot, too; there’s a small group of people clustered around a figure but there’s a significant enough gap between them and the person that Harry can see his sister. She’s wearing a maroon dress that billows out around her, hints of silver and gold glinting in the light and making her sparkle. Her silver mask, made of some material Harry can’t identify but covered in silky frills and _real_ flowers, hides half her face. 

“May I cut in?” Harry asks when he approaches her and the people around her dissipate, giving them some semblance of privacy. 

“You look...” Gemma’s gold-dusted eyes travel from Harry’s face to his feet and then back up again. “Damn it, Harry. This is supposed to be about me.” 

Harry shrugs, grinning, and kisses her cheek. “You have real fucking flowers on your mask. I think we’re pretty even.” Although even as he says the words, he knows his own outfit is much more ostentatious than Gemma’s. Her dress is gorgeous, albeit not flashy, but it speaks for itself in its regal simplicity. Anyone from a mile away would be able to tell they’re looking at a princess even if she wasn’t wearing a tiara. 

“Why does your coat have a longer train than my dress?” she questions with a lazy tilt of her head. “And why, oh, why can I see your nipples?”

Harry’s grin widens. “It’s called fashion, Gems. Someone in this room has to impress.” Gemma rolls her eyes and Harry laughs, pulls her into a hug. “I missed you so much,” he tells her softly. He really did. Everything finally feels right in the world. 

_Almost everything._

Gemma rubs his back and then takes a step away. “I missed you, too, and Mum was looking for you. Good luck finding her now, though.”

“Where are you going?” 

“I’m going to attend to my guests,” she says. She keeps walking backwards and blows him a kiss. “Don’t drink too much.” And then she’s gone, stepping from person to person and engaging with everyone she comes across. 

Harry snags a glass of wine from a server and watches Gemma for a moment, the way she would so easily blend in with the people if it weren’t for her standout dress and presence. She’s always had the ability to be one of the people, something Harry envies very much. As much as everyone adores Harry and bends backward to his will, he’s always been the prince. He has always been seen as the crown prince and, yes, it’s something Harry mostly revels in, but it also becomes a bit monotonous. No one treats him as just _Harry._ Everyone tiptoes around him because he’s the crown prince, because he’s up there and they’re down there, and there’s always that gap. It’s never something Harry complains about, but watching how easily Gemma can fit herself into anyone’s side makes him wish he could too. She doesn’t need to compel anyone for their company and Harry can’t even find people who want to be around him even with his compulsion. He’s always _Your Highness_ for everyone. 

Everyone except one person. 

His mind flashes back to that night nearly a month ago, when he was wandering this room with his eyes on a boy wearing a powder blue jacket, swaying from side to side with a girl in his arms. He remembers wondering if that boy was his soulmate. 

Here is now, almost a month later, looking for a boy with powder blue eyes. His soulmate. 

Someone comes to stand in front of him and says hello, and truth be told, Harry hasn’t a clue who they are. It’s hard enough keeping track of all the elites’ names, and it’s even more difficult trying to remember them when their faces are covered behind masks. Several glasses of wine later he sees Arfa talking to someone who looks distantly familiar, but he doesn’t get a chance to go up to her. 

The entire room comes to a standstill when Harry spots someone standing nearby, one shoulder leaning against the ivory column. Harry recognizes the posture before anything else, the curve of his shoulder. He’s looking into the crowd, eyes not focused on anyone in particular, but there’s a relaxed tilt to his mouth that Harry hasn’t really seen before. His breath gets caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat because Louis looks ravishing, even with all the distance between him and Harry. He’s wearing a long sleeved silvery grey top that disappears into his darker pants and a black coat over it. Up until this moment, Harry has only seen him in worn out cotton tunics, stained with blood more often than not. This is different. This makes Harry’s breath stutter. Or maybe it’s the alcohol. Louis hasn’t yet noticed Harry staring at him and Harry doesn’t know why his heart is beating unsteadily, doesn’t know why it has forgotten its rhythm because of _Louis._ Then before he knows it, he’s wading through the crowd and towards him. 

The hall is big, yes, but never has it felt so massive. Harry walks for hours before finally stopping at Louis’ left. 

“You came,” he greets. It’s stupid and it’s meaningless, but it’s true. Louis came. In spite of how they left things the last time they saw each other, Louis came.

Louis doesn’t startle at the sound of Harry’s voice. He doesn’t even look over. Without moving, Louis says, “I was invited very nicely by someone.” _He read the letter._ Harry follows his line of sight and spots he thinks those are Louis’ sisters dancing together and, yeah, that melts his heart. He recognizes Charlotte; she hasn’t got her mask on. Then, before Harry can respond, Louis says: “And my sisters wanted to be here.” 

_Then_ he glances at Harry. And he smiles. 

It’s small, just like the other very rare smiles he’s given Harry, but it’s there. 

Harry’s heartbeat thrums. 

“Thank you for coming,” he tells Louis and it’s a miracle that he’s able to get an entire sentence out. There’s a flame flickering somewhere within him, making his mouth dry, warming the tips of his fingers. It’s a foreign sensation and it makes Harry want to... _do_ something. He doesn’t know what. Something is simmering just underneath his skin. 

Louis turns to face him and Harry gets lost. He’s wearing a black mask that swims in patches of sparkling silver and everything around Harry is shades of golden and he’s lost in a myriad of blue. Right now, standing less than an arm’s length away, Louis’ eyes are the most bewitching thing he has ever seen. In a sea of blue, there are flecks of grey that match his top and a smattering of gold that reels Harry in. He can’t look away. 

Louis’ mouth moves and Harry doesn’t know what he just said. All he hears is the rush of blood in his ears. 

_What is wrong with me?_

Louis leans closer to him, close enough to smell. To touch. “Are you okay?” he asks, and the words ring through Harry’s entire frame. 

“I want —” He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t understand his own body and what it’s doing to him. He closes his eyes and all he smells is the soft vanilla that’s coming from Louis. And something else. He doesn’t know what it is, but he feels intoxicated. 

A gentle weight on his arm and his eyes fly open. “What do you want, Harry?” Louis asks, voice velvet soft like never before, and his eyes — his eyes flicker down to Harry’s mouth. “What do you need?” 

Harry swallows around nothing. “I need —”

It’s instinct to wrap his fingers around Louis’ wrist and it’s instinct to lead Louis away from the gathering of people celebrating. He walks them out of the hall, the only thought on his mind being of Louis’ skin under his fingers. No one stops them and why would they? He can do whatever he wants. And Louis comes without complaint, too. That’s a first. They walk out of the room and down the hallway, away from curious eyes, and Harry stops when they enter a deserted corridor with one guard. 

“Don’t judge me too harshly for this,” he says to Louis, and turns to the guard with intent. It only takes half an instant for the guard’s brown eyes to turn hazy. “You never saw us,” Harry tells him breathlessly, acutely aware of Louis’ wrist in his hand. “We were never here. Now leave, please.” 

And the guard walks away. 

There’s a white wall, there’s Louis, and there’s Harry. 

Louis’ looking at him like that, like he can’t figure Harry out, and Harry’s _thrumming._ His blood is singing. 

_In love or getting there... It’s in your eyes._

All he can see are Louis’ eyes, clear as the sea, a dark ring forming at the edges. 

Louis lifts a hand up to Harry’s face, touches his bruised jaw gingerly, and Harry shivers at the sensation. 

“Harry,” Louis whispers. And that’s it. 

Something in him falls apart, some semblance of resolve absolutely falls to pieces. 

“Please. I just want...” He searches Louis’ eyes for something, anything, that completes the sentence he doesn’t know how to. He knows what he wants, but he doesn’t know how to say it, has never known how to speak to Louis properly. So he takes a step closer, just one, and places his right hand on the small of Louis’ back, gently, and takes another step. Louis moves with him and his back hits the wall, but it’s okay. Harry’s hand is there and no pain blossoms. “I just...” His other hand finds Louis’ neck, thumb stroking his cheek once. Harry closes his eyes and leans in more, feels Louis’ breath in the space between them, and it drives him wild. “I just want...” With one final step closer, his lips graze against Louis’ and the flame that was flickering inside him flares into an untamed fire. His heart feels like it could rupture through his ribcage. His blood feels hot, hot enough to burn through his skin. Louis’ mouth opens against his and he lets his tongue slip inside, follows the ridges along the roof of Louis’ mouth and then the softest sigh comes from Louis and Harry crumbles. His knees go weak and he crumbles. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into Louis’ skin and pulls back. 

Louis’ fingers are twisted in Harry’s clothes. “Why are you apologizing?” 

Harry feels his cheeks burn. “I didn’t mean to do that, I should’ve — I should have asked.” Only half of that is a lie. 

Louis’ mouth quirks into a tiny smile and Harry wants to taste it again. “Do I look like I’m saying no?” he asks, brushes a kiss along Harry’s jaw, and whispers, “I’m sorry about this.” 

Harry frowns. “About what?”

Louis’ nose brushes against his mouth and shudders. “I hurt you,” Louis says, “and I’m sorry.”

And it’s like this. There’s a flutter in Harry’s chest, like his heart is beating just a little too fast and just a little too light, and he buries his face in the crook of Louis’ neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like Louis didn’t make him bleed just days ago, like Harry doesn’t get on every last one of Louis’ nerves. 

The ornate mask is uncomfortable between Harry’s face and Louis skin, and there are fingers curling in the hair at the back of Harry’s neck, tugging gently. Harry lifts his head, brings his eyes to Louis’, and Louis breathes, “Take this off.” 

Untamed desire pools in his stomach and Harry shakes his head. He wants to kiss Louis again, not because of the alcohol, but he shakes his head and takes Louis’ hand. “Come with me.” 

He leads Louis farther away from the party, up the main stairway and towards his bedroom. With both of them wearing masks, none of the guards will be able to recognize Louis, but everyone will know Harry. And if they’re smart, if they’ve paid any attention recently, they’ll at least know who _could_ be with Harry. He pushes that thought aside, though. He’s taking _Louis_ to his room. Louis. Louis’ skin is warm against his own and, suddenly, he’s nervous again. Louis doesn’t say anything as they walk hand in hand, getting closer and closer to Harry’s room, and Harry doesn’t even know why they’re going there. He just wanted to get Louis away from the crowd, but he doesn’t know why they’re heading for his _room._

The soft sound of the footsteps on the carpet follow them into the room and there’s a quiet flurry of motion in the distance, the sound of fabric ruffling, and then the pitter patter of tiny, excited steps approaching. Prim skids to a stop in front of Harry and barks at him in greeting, then sidesteps him to get to Louis and stares up at him. 

“Hi, little love,” Louis cooes, crouches down to pet the dog. She jumps up at him, her little tongue darting out to lick at his face, and Louis _giggles._ He fucking giggles and Harry feels giddy himself, wants to bottle up the sound and keep it tucked away in the softest parts of his heart. Louis stands up with Prim in his arms, mouth curled in a delicious smile and eyes crinkled at the corners as he continues talking to her, fingers scratching behind her ears. 

Harry watches, enthralled, as his dog gets more and more smitten by the second — _his_ dog, who has a well established reputation for not liking most people. In fact, there are very few people she does like and voluntarily seeks out, even when Harry is nearby. Louis now appears to be one of them. 

“She doesn’t care for most people, you know,” Harry tells Louis softly, carefully, treading into historically hostile territory between them. “She doesn’t even give Mum the time of day.” 

Louis’ smile grows more fond. “We have a special bond, you just don’t know about it.” 

Harry holds back a slightly hysterical laugh at the irony. “I do know, actually,” he says. 

Louis peers at him curiously. “You know your dog is in love with me?” 

Harry reaches out to pet his dog, who preens under the touch. “I know why she likes you, why there’s a ‘special bond’ between you two.” Louis quirks a brow. Harry shrugs, tries to be nonchalant. “She sees us.”

A crease forms between Louis’ brows. “I’d sure hope she does. Bit of a problem otherwise.” 

“No, I mean.” _You have to tell him._ He knows he has to do it. With a deep breath, he says, “Louis, can we talk?” 

Louis looks up at him, eyelashes casting delicate shadows on his cheeks. “We _are_ talking, Princeling.”

It almost makes Harry roll his eyes, but he manages to resist the urge. In a strange way, it’s a bit of a relief that this is still the same, that their dynamic on its most fundamental level hasn’t changed — Louis treats Harry like _Harry,_ not like the Crown Prince. Somehow, it makes this whole exchange a little bit easier because there’s no pressure to be the _prince._ He’s just Harry talking to Louis. 

He walks further into the room, toes off his shoes as he gets closer to the bed, and wonders how to say what he needs to and where to start, but then Louis asks, “Why did you kiss me?” and he trips over nothing. 

Why did he kiss Louis? It’s a fair question, honestly, it is, and Louis deserves a fair answer, but all Harry has to offer is, “I wanted to.” 

He watches something shift in Louis’ eyes and his fingers twitch at his sides to take the black mask off. He wants to _see_ Louis, wants to know what emotions are playing on his face. He doesn’t do anything, though. He already crossed a line tonight and he doesn’t want to push his luck any more. He turns away from Louis and sits on the floor, his back against the foot of it. He wants to take his own mask off, but it’s providing him some distance from Louis. He knows he’s not the best at managing his feelings, is absolutely shit at keeping a poker face, and every one of his emotions would bleed into his features. Perhaps Louis knows that because he comes and sits right next to Harry. 

“You’re horrible,” Louis comments and continues petting the dog in his lap. 

Harry frowns. “I won’t argue with that, but, why am I horrible?”

“A three word answer to my five word question doesn’t constitute talking. Not in my book.” And, yeah, he’s probably right. Technically? No. Three words _do_ constitute talking, but that’s just semantics. Harry knows exactly what Louis means and he knows it’s his turn to speak, but Louis doesn’t give him the chance. “Do you remember the ball you held last year? For the children?” 

Harry nods. It was a good night. He’d organized an event to celebrate the winter solstice and held a dance for everyone up to the age of sixteen. It’s not uncommon for there to be something happening at the palace that’s catered to the adult citizens of Delea, but there’s hardly ever anything specifically for the kids. Harry had made that party happen for them. A night for them to get dolled up and enjoy themselves as much and for as long as they wanted to. 

“I was on duty that night,” Louis continues, voice fond and faraway, eyes fixed on Prim. “I wasn’t supposed to be, but Daisy and Phoebe were going to be here, so I took an extra shift. I didn’t even do indoors duty at that point, but I talked to Niall and he let me be there so I could keep an eye on my girls.”

“I don’t remember,” Harry admits, feeling a trickle of guilt drip down his spine. “I was just, um, I really didn’t pay attention to much besides the kids, if I’m honest.”

Louis lets out a soft laugh, just barely there in the space between them. “I know. I saw you. You were dancing with Daisy, had her stood on your feet when I thought to myself, _I could love him if I got to know him.”_ Harry’s breath gets lost somewhere on its way out of his lungs. He stares at Louis, blood rushing in his ears, and when Louis looks up, Harry’s eyes fall on the trace of a smile on his mouth. “God, I love leaving you speechless.” 

If there were anything besides stunned surprise in Harry, he’d be glaring. 

_In love or getting there, somewhere along the way._

“I wasn’t going to tell you because you did everything you could to make me hate you,” Louis continues on like Harry isn’t in the midst of an existential crisis. 

_In love or getting there, somewhere along the way._

“But then you went and kissed me and here we are.”

“I thought you do hate me,” Harry finally rasps out. 

Louis shrugs. “Love and hate are two sharp knives balanced on a very fine line and I’ve cut myself on both because of you.” 

The words shouldn’t make Harry wince, but they do. It’s an out of body experience as certain things fall into place: Louis helping find Gemma despite Harry’s more than unacceptable behavior, Louis keeping Harry’s clothes after wearing them, Louis standing up for himself, Louis barely being able to stand the sight of Harry, Louis shuddering underneath Harry as Harry cleaned his wounds, Louis not wanting Harry to see him so open and vulnerable, Louis calling him _Princeling_ in that taunting, yet slightly fond voice. 

Arfa’s voice saying: _“Louis doesn’t hate you… He’s just really angry with you.”_

It’s a while before either of them say anything else and when he finally speaks, what falls out of Harry is, “You loved me,” and then, like an afterthought that crashed into him: “Do you still love me?” 

“Why did you kiss me?” 

Prim wiggles out of Louis’ lap and finds her place on the bed again, probably curling up next to Harry’s pillow. 

“Harry.” Louis’ voice is honey warm and Harry closes his eyes. There’s movement next to him and then the back of Louis hand caressing his jaw, thumb digging gently into the corner of his mouth. More movement and Harry squeezes his eyes shut tight when an unfamiliar weight settles in between his legs, fingers moving to the back of his head and getting lost in his hair, fumbling with the claps of his mask until there’s a _click_ and it’s gone. “Harry, look at me,” Louis breathes the words practically into Harry’s mouth, curls his fingers into Harry’s hair, and something hot coils in the pit of Harry’s stomach. His eyes flutter open and Louis is basically _sitting on him,_ blinking down slowly at Harry, and whispers, “Why did you kiss me?” 

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t know how to explain it to Louis, doesn’t know how to do anything right now except marvel at the way Louis looks when he’s gazing down at Harry, the way his weight feels so fucking good on Harry, the way his fingers tug just barely at Harry’s hair and makes his breath stutter. 

Louis leans down and noses along Harry’s jaw where it’s still bruised. “You’re lying,” he trails the words across Harry’s skin. “I know you’re lying because I get this strange, _wet_ feeling and I know it’s yours.” Louis’ lips press against the underside of Harry’s jaw. “When you were ripping into Alfieri, I felt _red_ all over and I knew it was you. I knew you were angry then and I know you’re lying now. Tell me why.” 

Harry feels paralyzed. 

_They are far and few in between, but soulmates can get to a point where they can be aware of_ all _of each other’s strong emotions._

He shuts his eyes again and lets Louis take control, lets him breathe Harry in.

Louis’ mouth hovers by Harry’s ear and Harry shivers when Louis whispers, “Hold them in your hands, feel the texture of them with your fingers, allow the scent of them to fill your lungs.” His heart crashes against his ribs when he realizes Louis is reciting the words Harry wrote for him. “That way, perhaps, I’ll make a space for myself in your heart.”

Louis’ name falls from Harry’s lips in a broken plea. 

“Tell me the truth, Harry,” Louis tempts again and it would be so easy to pour the truth right out of Harry, so fucking easy, and he’s terrified of what that means. Terrified of what it means that Louis is kneeling in between his legs, half his weight on Harry, his hands lost in Harry’s hair and his voice pulling at Harry’s very essence, he’s paralyzed by the realization that he _likes_ it. 

He likes Louis’ hands on him and he likes Louis’ mouth marking patterns along his jaw. 

He likes Louis. 

_In love or getting there, somewhere along the way._

Almost in a daze, he lifts his hands up to Louis’ head and fumbles with the knot keeping the black mask in place. It takes a while since his fingers are unsteady and Louis’ eyes are a flash of lightning during a thunderstorm, hot and electrifying, and Harry can hardly breathe right. When the strings finally give and Harry pulls the mask away from Louis’ face, he can’t hold it back. Something in him just unravels at seeing that concentrated and curious look on Louis’ face and he just can’t resist it. 

Harry arches his back, cranes his neck just a little higher, and kisses Louis. 

It starts soft, like rose petals unfurling, and then it picks up in its frenzy, like late autumnal winds, and Harry feels every season collide within him. Every corner of his brain feels like it’s on fire, each synapse firing quicker than the last, creating a buzz that travels from his head to his toes and leaving him dizzy. It’s when he feels Louis’ tongue in his mouth, soft and hesitant, that something explodes inside him. Something _bursts_ and there’s a splash of color behind his closed eyelids — color and glitter and _lightning._ More than once, there were these storms one summer when it would rain like the sky was _angry_ at the world and it would strike the ground with lightning and Harry would see trees light up in the dark. With every lightning strike, he could see pieces of the world come to life from where he stood at his open window, letting water into his room. Once, when he was nineteen, he went outside in the storm and stood in the garden, face tilted up at the sky as heavy rain hit his eyelids and raindrops dripped into his parted mouth. He felt electric standing there, his entire frame trembling, as the green around him was drowned in heavy darkness and rain soaked him to the bone. 

This kiss is that. 

His teeth catch on Louis’ bottom lip and the sound it elicits is like it’s ripped right from Louis’ lungs, raw and a little jagged, a little bit like molten lava, and it sends Harry shaking. Louis kisses him like he’s trying to breathe him in and he does, he leaves Harry breathless. Something otherworldly settles over him, leaves him trembling underneath Louis, so much so that Louis pulls back and takes Harry’s hand in his own, fingers wrapping gently around Harry’s wrist under the sleeve of his coat. 

Harry can feel his own pulse rabbiting underneath Louis’ fingers and it’s a heady sensation.

“You’re shaking,” Louis states the obvious, eyes lifting from where their skin touches. Louis presses down on the inside of Harry’s wrist, just a bit, and his other hand cradles Harry’s face. “You’re _shaking,_ Princeling.” 

Harry wants to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. He can’t believe he just kissed Louis twice, both times because he couldn’t _not_ do it, and it was enough to leave him physically shaking — enough for Louis to notice and stop. 

“What happened?” Louis asks, concern seeping into his voice. 

“You,” Harry blurts out. “You happened.” When Louis only looks more confused, Harry closes his eyes for a moment and forces himself to take a deep breath. His heart seems hellbent on escaping from his chest. Meeting Louis’ eyes once again, Harry thinks it’s now or never. They’ve been dancing around this for so long now, far too long, and it’s time he’s honest with himself and with Louis, who is still kneeling in between Harry’s legs. 

Harry takes Louis’ hands in his own and stares at the small cuts and scrapes disrupting the smooth golden skin. 

“The first time I saw you in that bedroom, you brought me to my knees,” Harry recalls with a pang in his chest. That moment feels like a lifetime away, so far out of reach after everything that has happened, even though it’s only been a month. Still, everything is different now. “I didn’t even realize it then, but you had me on my knees without saying a word and that just doesn’t happen. You know why?” Harry glances up to find Louis gazing at him, muted questions etched into his features. He focuses back on Louis’ hands, traces the small, curved scar on the knuckle of his left thumb. “I tattooed my knees a few years ago. Delea’s stars and mountains on my right knee and its forests and seas on the other — a reminder for myself a warning for others that I bow down for nothing and no one except my kingdom.” Something akin to irony tugs at his lips. “You had me kneeling day in and day out, begging and persuading you for this and that, and not once did I realize I was doing it until my best friend said it.” With an unsteady breath, Harry meets Louis’ eyes and says, “I didn’t fall for you, Louis. I stumbled through every argument and every fight, every instinct telling me to stay away, every ounce of logic telling me to _run,_ and I barged right into you.”

With his free hand, he touches the greeny blue bruises around Louis’ right eye. “You took me down and I don’t know how to get back up,” he confesses quietly, hesitantly. Like he’s afraid of what Louis might say, even though only minutes ago Louis told him he might love Harry. Might. He remembers what he wrote in that letter for Louis, so he repeats it now. “You’re in my skin and I want you out, but I think I’ll lose a part of me if that happens and I don't understand.”

“Help me understand,” Louis says right back, like he knows exactly what Harry is referencing, and he wonders just how many times Louis read the damn thing. If he’s been thinking about this _thing_ between them as much as Harry has. Louis twirls a finger around a stray curl of Harry’s and tugs lightly, just once. “When you told me about our soulmate connection, the very first instinctive thought I had was, _‘we have to find a way to end it,’_ and then you said you would make me forget about it and have it severed. I’ve never hated you more than in that moment.” 

“I’m sorry.” It tumbles out of him immediately, his cheeks flaring up shamefully. In hindsight, he can’t believe how selfish and cruel he’s been with Louis, how little _care_ he has shown for Louis despite his best intentions. “I was trying to do right by us both and I got carried away.” 

“I hated every moment of you acting like you _owned_ me, like you could do anything you want with me and I’d simply have to go along with it.” Louis pulls his hands away from Harry and sits back on the floor, no part of him touching Harry. “I hated you and I still wore your jacket whenever I could. I went home and I wore your yellow shirt to sleep because I could and because it smelled mostly like you.” His gaze doesn’t waver when he says, “You may have fallen to your knees for me without realizing it, but I’ve been in love with you longer than you’ve known about me.” 

Harry’s mouth opens and Louis kicks his shin, hard. 

“If you show any impulsive, meaningless reciprocity, I _will_ walk out of here and you will have to live with never seeing me again.” 

Harry closes his mouth. His heart and mind are both racing, his sister’s words resounding again and again, and all he can do is stare at Louis, speechless. 

“I was planning on giving you hell,” Louis continues in that same voice he often uses on Harry — a little flippant, a little arrogant, very much in opposition to any royal etiquette. “I was going to tell you a clear cut _no_ about cutting the bond. I was going to tell you to fuck off with your princely bullshit, your high and mighty demands. Hell, I was even contemplating asking Arfa to give you the cold shoulder, and then...” His mouth twitches with the ghost of something humorous. “You showed up at my house in the middle of the night, a drunken mess of sincere apologies and a genuine fear that my sister might make you forget everything about me.” Louis nudges Harry’s ankles with his foot. “You had me that night and I don’t know where to go. You asked me to free you, to let you walk away, and I don’t want you to. I don’t want you walking away.” 

“I don’t want to walk away,” Harry promises. He knows he doesn’t. He doesn’t know much about what he wants, but he knows this much. After all this time, he wants Louis close to him. Staring at Louis now, the blue in his eyes that shifts to match the silvery grey in his clothes, Harry wants Louis so close. 

“Then don’t walk away,” Louis says. 

Silence cloaks them in something velvety, soft and heavy. This time, Harry moves towards Louis, slow and cautious, giving Louis time to stop him, but he doesn’t. Just watches as Harry gets closer and almost hovers over him. 

“I could love you,” he tells Louis, remembering what Niall and Arfa said to him, what Gemma said to him. Every flare or frustration and anger and protectiveness he has felt over the last months — anger at anyone who so much as blinked at Louis wrong and the instinct to always protect him. It’s something more than just being soulmates, he knows that. 

“You don’t know me,” Louis returns, but his hands settle on Harry’s waist, fingers digging into his hips through the thin fabric. 

“I know you,” Harry promises and it’s not a lie. “I know all your sharp edges. I’ve cut myself on them. And I want to put ourselves back together, I want to stitch up the wounds and I want us to stop making each other bleed. Let me do that, please.” 

He so desperately wants Louis to _get_ it, to understand what he’s saying and how much he wants them both to stop hurting each other. He wants the bond severed for selfish reasons, he can admit that, but he also wants it done for Louis. It's not fair to Louis to have to feel every hurt Harry feels, for him to know when Harry is heartbroken or when he’s drowning in his own guilt or when he’s simmering in anger. 

“Let me have this, then,” Louis returns. At Harry’s furrowed brows, he shifts so that Harry is on his back on the rug and Louis is on top of him, one of his hands laid gently on Harry’s stomach. Just above the waistband of his trousers. “Let me have this.”

Harry holds back a shiver. He wants to say yes, but what comes out is: “My dog is watching us.” 

And what he doesn’t expect is for Louis to start laughing, but that is what happens. He bellows out a hearty laugh and then drops a kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth. Harry's eyes flutter closed. “Then take me elsewhere, Your Highness. 

▴

Harry has had sex before, but it’s never been like this. It’s never been careful, never been an act of _reverence_ the way it is with Louis. It’s always been quick and careless, bordering on meaningless, just a physical release for the time being. It’s never been like this. He’s never marveled at someone underneath him, has never taken the time to run his hands up and down the healing scars on someone’s back, has never taken the time to learn the ridges of someone’s spine with his mouth. He’s never memorized the freckles on someone’s back, especially never after using his bare fingers to wipe blood off of them days prior. He’s never felt the _need_ to hide away the person, to keep them secured in a bubble away from everyone else while simultaneously wanting to show them off like he’s the luckiest man in the world. 

He’s never allowed someone else to be on top of him before, so fully in control of him and what he does. He lets Louis hover over him, lets Louis do as he pleases, lets Louis leave tender bruises on his neck and on his ribs, working his way down to Harry’s thighs until Harry is nothing more than a bundle of nerves, squirming under Louis and grabbing at the sheets with clammy fingers. 

He’s never felt the cosmic explosions behind his eyelids when Louis comes with Harry’s name falling from his mouth, eyes lost in Harry’s until they roll back and squeeze shut. 

He’s never lost consciousness because of sex. 

When he opens his eyes again, it’s to Louis sitting by him wearing his blouse and holding an open book in his hands. 

“You passed out,” he greets Harry, who feels boneless. He truly doesn’t know if he has it in him to walk out of this room. Louis’ words come flooding with memories from just a little while ago, when everything inside of Harry twisted together and melted into something scalding, hotter and hotter until it burst, enveloping him in ecstasy that wasn’t his own and it’s with a gasp that he realizes what happened. 

“Did you — did I — did I feel you?” He doesn’t know how to put it into words. He’s overwhelmed simply by the thought of it, of feeling the pure bliss Louis felt when he was still inside of Harry. He would feel embarrassed and ashamed that he _passed out_ because of sex, but those feelings don’t come. All he can think about it is the prospect of _feeling Louis_ in such an... unfathomable way. Of Louis feeling him. 

Louis puts down the book and lays down on his side next to Harry, one hand roaming the expanse of Harry’s naked torso under the duvet. “I don’t know what you felt,” he says, “but I felt it when you passed out. An explosion of color and then muted blackness and just...” Louis’ hand comes to a stop over Harry’s chest, where he can feel his heartbeat thrumming unevenly. “I don’t know how to describe it. I’ve never felt that before.” 

“The bond,” Harry recalls out loud in a daze. He remembers back to what he read in the book. “I read that sometimes soulmates can, like, feel each other’s emotions? Like more than just when they get hurt.” He turns on his side so he’s face to face with Louis. “It said sometimes soulmates can feel each other’s really strong emotions, like if one of them is really happy or sad or something. I think that’s what happened.”

Louis blinks at Harry without surprise. “I know,” he says. “The last month has been full of me feeling intense emotions that weren’t mine and I didn’t connect the strangeness to you until you blurted it out to me, thinking I was under compulsion.” Fingers twist around Harry’s nipple and he squeaks embarrassingly. “You have a confusing, complicated fucking mind, Princeling.”

Harry squirms until Louis takes his hand away from all four of Harry’s nipples. With an exaggerated sigh, he says, “Try living in my mind. Sorting through my own emotions is hellish enough without trying to figure out how you felt and why you would do the things you did.” He tries not to think about what Louis must have felt in the last month — all the exaggerated confusion, frustrations, flashes of desire that Harry was too blind and too proud to recognize. 

Louis rolls his eyes. “And to think that you could have simply _asked_ me like a normal, rational person.” 

Something about the softness on Louis’ face juxtaposed with his faux annoyance melts Harry into a laugh and he pulls Louis on top of him, his hands settling on the cruel, uneven bumps on Louis’ back. “I’m the prince, darling, I don’t have to be rational.” 

“You’re not _the prince,_ you’re Harry,” Louis corrects him with a wry smile and Harry feels a flutter in his chest. 

“I like when you say my name,” he admits softly, like it’s a secret he never meant to share, but it’s out there in the gentle space between them. He says Harry’s name slowly, deliberately, like it fits just right in his mouth, like it was made to only be in his mouth. He makes Harry’s name sound like a prayer and a confession, balanced somewhere on a heavenly sin. 

Louis leans down, presses his lips against Harry’s forehead, and the words, “Maybe I still love you, Harry,” melt right into Harry’s skin. 

His heart dances around a beat. 

Right now, laying here under Louis, Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the feeling. It crept up without him ever realizing and now, suddenly, it’s taken root and he doesn’t know if he ever wants to go without. 

“Louis,” he whispers, voice velvet soft and oh so nervous. He’s walking on uncharted grounds and he knows one wrong step can ruin everything, but he wants this. So desperately. “I don’t want to lose you,” he confesses like it’s a sin, but it feels so liberating to get out. 

Fingertips fan across his cheek and Louis’ gaze is steady when he says, “I’ve waited longer than you know to have you like this.” His thumb presses into the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Soulmate or no, I want to stick around. I’m not here right now because of some soul connection.” 

Harry swallows, lets the words settle between them, lets himself take in the implications in Louis’ unwavering voice. “If we didn’t have the bond,” Harry begins, “if I was just Harry and you were just Louis, you would still want this?” 

_Would you still want me?_

Louis’ eyes fall to Harry’s mouth. “I fell in love with you when you were just the smug faced, soft spoken prince who sometimes danced with children. I’ve been a fool for you, pretty boy, not for some soul connection I didn’t know exists.” He brushes back the stay curls from Harry’s forehead. “My first instinct at learning about the bond was this _need_ to sever it because I didn’t want to be the reason you felt any pain, but I said _no_ out of sheer spite.”

Harry takes a moment to think about that. He never planned on falling for Louis, never even considered the possibility — was so oblivious to his own feelings that three other people had to spell them out for him. He never thought it could happen, not after Louis was implicated in Gemma’s kidnapping, but here they are tangled in each other in a guestroom. Soulmate or no, he wants Louis for himself, to have and to protect and to touch and to taste and to love. Whatever that looks like. He wants them to be the difference between love and in love. 

“You always did have an attitude problem with me,” Harry finally throws back at him. 

Louis kisses him quiet. 

Harry knows they should be downstairs. Louis’ sisters are probably looking for him and Harry’s own family is probably wondering where he is. Everyone is most likely wondering where the crown prince is, but he can’t quite bring himself to care, not when Louis’ tongue does _that_ and his hips move against Harry’s, his fingers tugging at Harry’s hair and Harry’s hands digging into Louis’ ass. He doesn’t care about anything that isn’t the feeling of Louis’ body synchronising with his. 

“When your back is fully healed and doesn’t hurt anymore,” Harry gasps out when Louis bites at his neck, “I want you spread out under me. Just for me.” 

Anything else he might have said gets stolen from his mouth as Louis’ mouth finds his own again. 

▴

Louis leaves Harry not much later — or maybe a lot later, he isn’t sure how much time passes before Louis has to take his girls back home. Harry offers to have them escorted back with a group of handpicked guards, but Louis wouldn’t have it. Harry gets it, he supposes. If he were in Louis’ place and asked to entrust the palace guard with the safety of his little sisters, he wouldn't compromise, either, not after everything that happened. Louis has every reason to distrust the guards and Harry doesn’t blame him, but something about it doesn’t sit right with him. No matter how convoluted the situation got, Louis shouldn’t have to watch his back, literally and figuratively, at every moment. Despite all prior evidence to the contrary, he did nothing wrong. 

He leaves Harry with the words, “Find me tomorrow, Princeling. I have questions.” 

Harry’s darling blouse also disappears with Louis. 

Harry spends the night tossing and turning in his bed, tormented by the ghosts of Louis’ fingers, but for the very first time in his life, it’s a welcome feeling. 

▴▴▴

The next morning, breakfast with his mother and Gemma (and Liam) is full of pointed silence, like they (minus Liam) know he did something last night. And they probably do, considering Harry got on one knee in front of Louis and asked him to dance when they both finally came downstairs. Granted, no one really _knew_ it was Louis because everyone was wearing their masks, but something about them was different and even Harry felt it. There was an air of confidence around them, something deeply intimate that he didn’t feel with anyone else, and he’d bet anything that people around them could see it, too. 

“Out with it, Harry.” The words finally burst out from Gemma as she spreads apple jam on her toast. 

Harry keeps his face as neutral as possible, but he knows he fails when his nose twitches. “Out with what?” 

If the table wasn’t as big as it is and Gemma was sitting next to him, Harry is sure she would swiftly kick him under it, all while plastering a smile on her face. “You know what you did last night, come on.” She looks from Harry to her toast and then at their mother, who is watching them both with great amusement and maybe just a hint of confusion. “Doesn’t he look more lively, Mum? There’s a sparkle around him.”

Harry scoffs. “There’s always a sparkle around me, Gems. You may have the name, but everyone knows I’m the real sparkling gem of this family.” 

Now it’s Gemma's turn to roll her eyes. “Tell _me,”_ she whines, dragging out the last word for far too long. 

Harry sips his juice. “None of your business,” he shrugs, which is the worst thing he could’ve done because now they all know there _is_ business, whatever it may be. But he’s saved from having to answer anything else because at that moment, Merida walks into the dining hall, looking very out of place as she stares at the four of them. 

“The kitchen staff sent me here,” she says in lieu of greeting, fidgeting with the bow at the front of her dress. “They wouldn’t give me food to take to my room.” 

“Come eat with us, darling,” Anne says warmly with a cup of tea in hand. 

Harry pats the empty chair next to him. “Guest of honor should eat with the family, don’t you think?” 

Amusement creeps into Merida’s eyes as she approaches the table. “Guest of the honor, you say?” She takes a seat next to Harry and then focuses on Gemma. “I’ll have you know your brother was trying to make a move on me in your absence.” 

And, yes, Harry feels his cheeks get warm at the words, even though they’re not neither true nor false. He did initiate their conversation and he did dance with her that night, but was he trying to make a move on her? Hard to say, honestly, especially given his newfound understanding of much deeper feelings. Maybe, at the time, he wanted a distraction from all the madness and the confusion, but would he have gone through with it? Even if he didn’t know she’s Liam’s _sister?_ Probably not. 

As it is, Gemma finds the idea equally scandalous, even though there’s nothing inherently scandalous about it and she doesn’t even know about Liam and Merida’s parentage. “Harry, we’re not going to marry into the same family. Absolutely not.” 

Before Harry can say that he will, in fact, not be marrying into the St. Clairs, Merida speaks up. “No offense to His Highness, but I’m really not interested. Just thought I’d let you know what he’d been up to, though.” She says the last part with a wink in Harry’s direction. 

And so that’s how breakfast goes. Anne makes amicable small talk with Merida, Liam and Gemma talk quietly, and Harry dodged probing glances from his sister. When he’s done and leaving, he leans down to whisper in Gemma’s ear, “I kissed Louis.”

He does not wait to see the expression that accompanies her exclaimed, “You did _what,_ Harry?”

▴

For the second time in less than a week, Harry finds himself standing outside Louis’ home. 

He didn’t notice that night, or maybe he was just too drunk to remember, so he takes in some details of the house now. The door in front of him is a dull yellow and he can splinters in the wood here and there, like it’s weathered things Harry can’t imagine. There are plants, too, and Harry does remember those — pretty little things that Harry wouldn’t mind having back at the palace. The house is multistory, in relatively good shape, and clearly structured to shelter several people. For a brief moment, Harry wonders if it’s a family home or if Louis had it built himself. Being a palace guard pays well and comes with its benefits, but Harry doubts that would be enough for a house like this — and Louis was only a guard for four years, according to Niall. Curiosity tugs at Harry and he knocks on the door. 

Just like the other night, no one answers immediately. He waits a moment, fidgeting with the undone buttons on his coat. He’s nervous again, but not like that night. It’s a lighter feeling, something more welcome, like how he feels every year before spring when his eyes seek out new flower buds everywhere he goes. Eager more than nervous. 

Just like the other night, when the door opens, it’s Félicité. Just like the other night, she doesn’t bow, but there’s no sharpness to her features like last time. She doesn’t smile when she greets him with a simple, “Hello, Harry,” even though Harry never said she could use his first name, but she doesn’t sound unkind. She still looks like a female version of Louis, alert and defiant, shoulders back and chin up as she holds eye contact with Harry. 

Harry keeps a pleasant smile on his face. “Hello, Félicité. Is your brother at home?” When all she does is narrow her eyes the tiniest bit, Harry tilts his head. “You know, it’s a bit impolite not to invite the crown prince inside.”

Félicité matches his stance. “That’s a relief,” she sighs dramatically. “Mum did advise us not to be _too_ polite. Good to know I’m making her proud.”

Confusion pulls Harry’s brows together. “Your mum advised you against being polite?” 

“No, she just knew what happens to children who lose their only parent at a young age and are too timid to stand up to anyone. She wanted us to fight back.”

Harry eyes her carefully, the way she’s standing between him and whoever else is inside. 

_“She wanted us to fight back.”_

No wonder Louis is so keen on respect and autonomy. No wonder Félicité threatened to wipe all traces of her brother from Harry’s memory. They fight back and they fight for each other. It’s a lesson Harry has learned from his mother, too, even if it wasn’t in those exact words. They all fight for each other. They fight for Delea. Family before anything. 

“I’m not here to fight anyone,” Harry tells her. “Louis asked me to be here.”

Félicité considers that for a moment, her eyes seeing something over Harry’s shoulder, and then steps to the side before opening the door fully and allowing Harry inside. “I’m not letting him in.” 

Harry turns to look at Jasper, the guard, who waves at him and Harry lifts a hand in acknowledgment. He wanted to come alone, but, of course, Niall would not let that happen. “It’s fine,” he tells Félicité. 

In the daylight, the inside of the house looks quite different from his dreary drunken memory. There are several windows in the common room, spilling natural light into the space, and it’s… cozy. It may not match the decadence of the palace, but it has a comforting feeling of _home_ . Maybe it’s the handwoven basket on the small table or maybe it’s the plants scattered about the room, or the vase filled with white flowers. Maybe it’s yellow curtains. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s a distinct feeling of _belonging_ in this space. 

Maybe it’s the image of Louis sleeping on the small sofa with his arms around a child with vibrant red hair. 

“Louis’ her favorite sibling.” Félicité’s voice pulls Harry out of his meandering thoughts and he glances at her to find her smiling fondly at the pair. “Whenever he’s at home, they’re inseparable. Even more now that he’s hurt and she can see it.”

Harry can’t tell if that’s a dig at him or not, but it feels like one and a tendril of guilt coils around him. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

“What for?” Félicité asks. 

Harry nods towards Louis. “He’s hurt and it’s partly my fault, so. I’m sorry.” 

This time, she looks at him for longer than before, a heavy, contemplative silence enveloping them before she says, “It wasn’t your fault. Horrific things happened to him under your roof and he still has nightmares about them, but it wasn’t _your_ fault. Don’t shoulder responsibility for someone else’s mistakes, just make amends for the things you did wrong.” 

Harry barely has the time to process the words _nightmares_ and _responsibility_ when two sets of running footsteps echo down a flight of stairs, loud, similar voices talking over each other. Félicité walks in their direction, he assumes, and then two girls round the corner. They come to an abrupt stop as soon as they see Harry, their identical faces rearranging into something like awe and disbelief. 

_Phoebe and Daisy,_ Harry remembers. Louis talked about them. 

“Hello.” Harry smiles at them, but he doesn’t really know what else to do. He doesn’t know how to properly interact with them, given that they still aren’t moving and Harry doesn’t really know them. “I’m Harry,” he says and they exchange a look. 

He waits a moment and they share another look before the twins move at the same time, walking across the room to where Harry is. They both do a little bow before Harry can stop them. 

“I’m Daisy,” says one of them. 

“And I’m Phoebe,” says the other, sounding exactly the same as her sister. 

Harry doesn’t know how he’s going to tell them apart. They’re even wearing the same pale blue dress that matches their eyes. 

Harry crouches down so he can look at them when he says, “It’s very nice to meet you both.” 

Daisy blushes while Phoebe crosses her arms. “Are you here because of Louis? He’s sleeping.” 

“I am here because of Louis,” Harry admits. He looks at where Louis is, still fast asleep despite them talking around him, and it almost makes Harry smile. 

“Did he go with you last night?” Phoebe questions. 

Now it’s Harry’s turns to blush as he remembers what happened last night. “He did.” Images of Louis naked in bed flash in front of him and he bites hard on his lip. “We had to talk.” 

She seems to ponder that quietly, the small lines in her forehead oh so reminiscent of the way Louis looks sometimes, and Harry has to bite back his smile. 

“Okay,” she says finally. “Louis said you’re nice.” 

Harry hears the unsaid, _I’ll tolerate you because of Louis,_ but his mind is mostly caught on _Louis said you’re nice._ It shouldn’t come as a surprise, really, because Louis said much more than that last night, but somehow it still makes Harry want to preen. And he may have said more, but just then, someone knocks on the front door several times, like they’re used to doing it. It’s loud enough to wake Louis up, who looks around the room in a slight daze until his eyes land on Harry and stay there.

Félicité opens the door for their new guest and in walks a man Harry recognizes by face but doesn’t know well. Confusion wraps around him as he watches Félicité greet the man with ease and familiarity; the twins race over just in time for the newcomer to bend down and lift them both off the ground in one hug. 

Then the man’s eyes fall on Harry and the warm smile on his face transforms into something wary. 

“Your Highness,” he says with a nod, the stiffness in his voice a stark contrast to the gentle way he’s holding Louis’ sisters. 

“Hello,” Harry calls back, unsure of what is happening. 

There’s a hand pressing to the small of his back, then, just for a moment, as Louis passes by him with the baby still in his arms. Harry wants to pull him back, but he stays put. 

“The hell are you doing here, Zayn?” Louis asks, but there’s affection lacing his words and Harry can tell he’s happy to see Zayn. 

“I’m off work today,” Zayn says as he lets the twins go and takes the little one from Louis. “Wanted to see how you’re holding up and Mum sent food. Hi, angel,” he almost coos at the child, who’s now blearily awake. 

“Your mother’s a gem, tell her thanks for me and tell her I’ll come see her soon.” Louis picks up the basket at Zayn’s feet and rifles through it as he says, “This is lovely, really, and I feel great. And as much as I’d love to entertain you… I’ve already got guests.” 

At that, Zayn’s eyes once again find Harry, who feels awkward and out of place in this room. He doesn’t know what Zayn sees in him, but he looks back at Louis — raises one hand to Louis’ chin and tilts Louis’ head back a little, almond eyes squinting slightly. He says something low enough that Harry can’t hear and Harry wants to take his hand off of Louis. Something ugly rears its head and Harry wants to get closer, wants to pull Louis back from Zayn, but he doesn’t move as Zayn touches Louis’ face more and Louis lets him, even though he lets out a dramatic sigh. 

It’s when he glances around the room that Harry realizes they’re the only ones left; Félicité and the twins are nowhere in sight. 

“Harry.” That’s Louis’ voice, warm and inquisitive, and Harry looks back at him. He nods over his shoulder at the front door. “Come with me?” 

Zayn is still standing there and even though his eyes are on Louis’ sister, Harry knows he’s paying attention to them. He doesn’t say anything to Louis, doesn’t want to say anything in front of the other man, but he walks past them and out of the house. Louis doesn’t follow immediately and Harry wants to see why not, but he doesn’t. He walks over to where his mare is standing, presses his cheek into her neck, letting her hang her head over his shoulder and she raises one of her forelegs in a hug. It’s immediately comforting and Darling’s breath on his back is enough to make him forget about Louis and Zayn, even if just for a moment. For a split second, he contemplates getting up on the saddle and letting her gallop through the countryside with no one at his side. 

The thought dissipates when there are footsteps behind him and Harry turns around to see Louis walking towards him.

He’s wearing Harry’s black velvet jacket from weeks ago, the one that got stained with his blood weeks ago. 

“Hi,” he smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners against the sunlight. Under the sun, Harry can barely see the fading bruises around his eyes. Louis extends a hand and Darling nuzzles into his palm and it’s, well, an odd thing to witness. The only other person who so easily engages with her is Niall because all other guards know better than to get too friendly with the prince’s mare. Louis seems to hold no such reservations and it shouldn’t surprise Harry at all, but it still does a little bit. 

“Hi,” Harry says back. He wants to reach out, but he’s acutely aware of Jasper watching them. It doesn’t matter, really, but he doesn’t want an audience for this and he doesn’t know how to get the guard to leave them alone without using compulsion. He refuses to do that, though, so he asks Louis, “Where do you want to go?” 

▴

They end up by the river at the edge of the woods. 

Jasper stays back, leaving a good amount of distance between him so Harry knows he can’t hear anything they might say. He sits on a crooked circle of dirt surrounded by reminders of snow under the shade of a tree and Louis sits next to him, close enough for their shoulders to touch if either of them move at all. The water’s a deep gray color, stray patches of snow floating on the surface. If he were alone, Harry would be tempted to dive into the river and feel the water around him, let it turn him into a pale blue and jump out before it froze him. There’s euphoria in flirting with nature and Harry craves it. 

“Ask it.”

The words come from his left and he doesn’t look at Louis when he hums in a wordless question. 

“You have that look on your face, Princeling,” Louis says. He sounds so carefree, so relaxed. “You’re going to chew your lip off if you keep biting it like that. You do that when you’re thinking real hard about something, so spit it out.”

Harry scowls immediately, then tries ro school his face back into something neutral. He didn’t realize Louis paid enough attention to him to know what his tells are. He doesn’t see why he can’t say what’s on his mind, though. “Who’s Zayn?” he asks and then faces Louis. 

Louis looks... amused. There’s a ring of yellow around his right eye where the nasty bruise used to be, but other than that, he’s fine. He looks fine and Harry feels fine, other than that ugly feeling that’s been furling and unfurling in his stomach. “Zayn’s a friend,” Louis says. “My best friend, if I’m honest.” 

Louis’ best friend. Harry has seen Zayn around the palace a fair amount of time. It’s usually by his mother’s side or at her door or anywhere close by, and then one time he saw Zayn near Louis — that day when Louis woke up and Niall dragged him into the counsel room to be questioned. Harry remembers now that Zayn was there, that Zayn was going to _handcuff_ Louis even though he was already so badly injured. The memory leaves a bitter taste in Harry’s mouth because the man who was going to cuff Louis is currently in Louis’ house, alone with Louis’ siblings. 

A hand settles on Harry’s knee and Harry looks down at where Louis fingers curl into his trousers. “He’s my best friend, Harry. He’s my Niall.” 

It’s an odd way to describe their relationship, but Harry isn’t sure how much Louis knows about Niall. The way Harry has seen them interact says that they’re friends, but Harry doesn’t know how deep that friendship runs and what Louis knows about Niall’s past. Niall and Harry’s parents were close friends and the two of them grew up in each other’s pockets. When Niall was thirteen, a hunting accident killed their fathers and Niall’s older brother. One year after that, his mother’s grief ended her life. At seventeen, Niall officially became a guard at the palace and, three years after that, became the youngest Captain in Delea’s history. Harry vaguely remembers Niall saying that Louis started working at the palace four years ago, which would’ve been just a year after Niall. Maybe that’s why they seem to know each other so well.

His confusion must give way because Louis continues with, “I’ve known Zayn for ages. His mum was good friends with mine for years, so growing up I got to spend time with him loads. His mum’s sick now, he’s got three sisters and I’ve got five. Only difference is in our fathers, really. Mine’s vermin and his has a heart of gold.” Louis pulls at a blade of grass. “He’s my Niall.” 

It’s cruel, Harry thinks, the way Louis was treated in front of his best friend as he remembers that day once again, this time with wistful anger. He remembers being confused at Zayn’s quiet apology to Louis, but it makes sense now. 

Harry takes Louis’ hand in his and lets his thumb run along Louis’ wrist. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. The skin around Louis’ wrist has healed, mostly, but there’s still some scabs. Harry covers them with his fingers. 

“Did Zayn make you… jealous?” Louis asks. When Harry looks up, there’s mirth in his eyes and his mouth is curling up at the corners. 

“No,” Harry says immediately, indignantly, and when Louis grins, he says, “Yes. I don’t… share well.” He presses down on Louis’ skin, just so. “I don’t share at all,” he admits and it should be embarrassing, but it’s not. He’s never been one to share and he’s not about to start with Louis. He holds Louis’ gaze when he tells him, “I looked for you before I knew you. For years, I looked for you everywhere, in every cut and scrape and bruise. I just wanted to know you. And then I met you and it all changed.”

“You hated me,” Louis finishes for him. 

“No.” Harry shakes his head. “All my life, I wanted to know you so I could keep you safe. That’s all I wanted. Just the pain to go away. Then I met you and thought you might have been one of the people who took my sister from me and I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t stand the idea of being bound to someone who might have hurt my family. I wanted that gone and I didn’t care what it took to make sure of that.” 

Louis’ looking at him like Harry’s a puzzle he can’t solve. “You still want it gone.”

Again, Harry shakes his head. “No, that’s not — you don’t get it, do you?” 

This time, Louis moves his hand so he’s holding Harry’s, fiddling with the rings on Harry’s fingers. “Explain, then. I’m listening.” 

Harry watches the water as he considers his words. He wants to get this right, wants to do this _right_ finally because they’ve been going back and forth for far too long. “When you were just the guard who was implicated in my sister’s kidnapping, I wanted you gone,” he begins. The words feel prickly as they tumble from his mouth. “It wasn’t just about the bond. I wanted that gone and I wanted you gone, I didn’t want you to be a part of my life in any way.” 

Louis twists the amethyst ring off of Harry’s finger and slides it onto his own. Harry shivers, even though there’s no wind. 

“Go on,” Louis says, eyes on their hands. 

“I still want the bond gone, but I want to keep you,” Harry says. It’s taken him so fucking long to realize that and now he doesn’t know how to _not_ tell Louis. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to keep feeling the way he does without telling Louis everything. “I don’t want to feel your pain. I’d take every ounce of it away in a heartbeat if you’d let me, but I don’t want to know what it’s like to be you when someone cuts your skin open. It makes me sick, Louis. I want you to be safe. If I have to feel it for the rest of my life, I’ll lose my mind. Please don’t make me live like that.” 

Louis’ quiet for a long moment. He twists Harry’s ring around in his hand before taking it off and sliding it back on Harry’s finger. “Isn’t it cruel,” he exhales on a whisper, “that we must recognize our soulmates only by learning the language of their suffering?” He lifts his head and the sun catches his eyes, turns them into something molten. “I’m neither a sadist nor a masochist, Harry. All you had to do was ask me.” And then, quieter: “I don’t believe in fate or soulmates or whatever else cosmic happenings. I love you, not because of a soulbond I can’t see or some higher power that decided you’re the one for me, but because you make me want to sing. I don’t sing, Harry.” 

Harry cracks a smile. “Sing for me?” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “I said _want_ to sing, not will.” 

Harry leans back against the tree and watches Louis, who stares back with the sun softening his features. There’s half a smile hanging from Louis’ mouth and Harry wants to catch it with his own, but he’s content with simply watching and memorizing the way Louis’ hair looks with beams of sunlight woven through it. Small droplets of rain slowly drizzle around them. 

Louis breaks the serene quiet with, “I don’t share, either. Just so you know.” He tugs on Harry’s hand, pulls him closer until their foreheads are touching, and says, “Bond or no bond, I won’t share. Be mine.” 

Harry curls his hands around the lapels of Louis’ — _his_ — jacket. “I thought you didn’t want to be mine.” 

“That was when you were a bratty, bastard, arrogant prince and acted like you owned me.”

“What am I now?” 

Louis’ lips graze against his brow bone. “Now you’re mine.” 

Those three words unravel Harry. 

They settle in his bones, surely and securely. A million hypotheticals swim around his mind: what will happen when he takes the crown and how Louis’ non royal bloodline will affect it, how the people of Delea will take to the crown prince with a former guard, how his own family will feel about it, but none of it matters. Right now, nothing matters except for the boy in front of him, who risked his own life time and time again to help Harry’s family. 

“I love you,” he tells Louis. Because he doesn’t know how to not say it and because it’s true. Love shouldn’t be trapped, he thinks. It should be free. 

“You’ve barely known me a month,” Louis says. 

“And yet I love you still, like rain in the sky — ephemeral and eternal.”

That’s when Louis kisses him, hands on either side of Harry’s face, and Harry could sink into the feeling forever. 

▴▴▴

It’s two weeks before Niall sends a group of guards to Dinali, a series of mountains along the edge of Eroda where the priestess, Ansab, lives. Under any other circumstances, Harry and Louis would have to travel to her, but given the nature of the ritual, Ansab advised it would be best for them to stay put once it’s completed. They’ll be in no shape to travel for days, she wrote in her letter, which arrived nine days ago. 

In the week that follows, Louis spends four nights in Harry’s bedroom. In the first half of the night, they talk and Harry learns a lot about Louis. 

He learns that Louis knows more about compulsion than Harry could have ever imagined because Félicité had the ability since she was a child and it only got stronger with age. She would use it on her family without realizing and they all had to learn the telltale signs, the minute changes in her demeanor when it was likely to slip out. That’s how Louis learned to resist it and that’s how he successfully kept Harry out of his own mind — he’s not immune to the trick, but he knows how to withstand it if he knows to expect it. He wasn’t expecting it that first time, when Harry took away his pain, but he remembered it later. 

He learns that Félicité likes to be called Fizzy by her friends. He also learns that he is not allowed to call her Fizzy. 

He learns that Charlotte is called Lottie by everyone and that she’s a painter. Daisy and Phoebe are called Daisy and Phoebe. The little one is called Doris and Louis calls her _his_ baby. 

He learns that Louis’ mother’s name was Johannah. She never got married and had kids with three different men who all walked out on her. Louis doesn’t know where his sisters’ fathers are, but he knows that his own is in prison. When Harry asks if he wants to see the man, Louis says, “He didn’t come see me when my mum died. I don’t need to see him.” Harry doesn’t mention it again. He tells Louis about losing his father, about how he doesn’t remember much about him because they never had a close relationship. His father was always busy with something more important than family, like other elites and policies and brunches. Harry can’t remember the last time he had a genuine moment with his father and the funeral had been closed casket. Harry never saw him after he died and it’s probably a good thing because Gemma did see him and she had nightmares for years. 

He learns that Louis and Arfa have been good friends ever since he started working at the palace, but they knew each other long before that. Their mothers had a close bond and Harry wonders if there’s anyone in Delea that Johannah didn’t have a good relationship with. On the nights that Louis sleeps in Harry’s bed, Arfa’s mother stays with his sisters and keeps an eye on them. They’re all family, Louis says. 

He learns that Louis has a thing for wearing his clothes. He also learns that seeing Louis in his clothes makes him feel hot and cold all over. 

He tells Louis that he’s scared of breaking the bond. He tells Louis about what he’s read so far in different books, what they all say about the pain that comes with severing the bond. Louis listens, intent as always, fingers tangled in Harry’s hair. He tells Louis he’s nervous that they won’t be the same afterwards, that he’s afraid of not feeling the same way about Louis when the thread tying them together is broken. That’s one of the potential risks listed in every explanation Harry has read and it terrifies him to think that they could come out on the other side of it feeling like strangers in their own skin. 

“An invisible thread you can’t see, one that only causes pain and suffering, does not define how you feel,” Louis tells him. 

And it’s a little comforting. If the bond was the only thing responsible for Harry’s feelings, he would’ve been in love with Louis from day one. He wasn’t. For so long, they could barely hold a civil conversation. Even with the bond drawing them closer and closer, Louis still managed to irritate Harry like no one else. Even with the bond and even with the social difference between them, Louis still didn’t submit to Harry. 

Harry clings to that hope, but a part of him still wonders, _how much of that was because of the bond?_ Because it’s not all bad, is it? When moonlight breaks through the window and Louis is underneath Harry, eyes closed and hair matted to his forehead, both of them still trembling from the waves of pleasure rolling off of them, it’s not all bad. They’d be giving this up, too — this unique intimacy that they will never have with anyone ever again. 

Louis traces the small scar on Harry’s nose and says, “I’m willing to take the risk. I don’t want a relationship that’s rooted in pain.” 

They talk about the future, about what might happen with them, what they might have to do. Harry doesn’t know how it would work when Gemma gets married and leaves Harry behind to look after the kingdom. The crown has always stayed with royal blood, so Harry flippantly says, “Maybe I can abdicate my place as crown prince. If Gemma’s next in line, there’s nothing to worry about.” 

And Louis scoffs at that. “You don’t let anyone push you around, you _love_ to remind people that you’re the crown prince, but you’d give up the _crown_ when no one has even asked you to? Get a grip, Princeling. That crown is yours.” 

It helps, a little. Having Louis with him helps, which is probably why he isn’t as nervous as he should be when he walks into the room to meet the priestess. 

She’s a tall woman, dressed in a vibrant red shirt and black, billowy trousers that are both in stark contrast to the silvery hair coiled in an intricate bun. A golden circle hangs from a thin chain around her neck, sitting perfectly snug in the hollow of her dark throat. There’s a leather bag slung over her shoulder and she holds a dirt colored cat in one hand. She’d look ethereal, balanced almost perfectly between light and dark, if it weren’t for the cat that’s missing one eye. Harry doesn’t ask about it and she doesn’t comment on it. 

“Greetings to you, Prince. I am Ansab of Sipur.” Her voice has a pleasant lilt, something like sunlight gleaning off of dark velvet. Harry responds with an equally formal greeting, but it doesn’t seem like she hears it. Her eyes move over everyone else in the room, darting between Gemma and the queen, both of whom have similar diadems atop their heads. She looks at Liam for a split second before turning to Louis, who’s sitting next to Harry with Niall behind his chair. Her gaze is scrutinizing, which is probably why Harry feels Niall’s hand come to rest on the back of his chair. Ansab doesn’t miss it; her head tilts to the side, just barely, and her eyes flicker between Niall and Louis. 

Finally, she settles on Niall. “You’re not the soulmate,” she says like she’s figured them all out just from a silent look, “but he’s the first person in this room you would protect if there was a threat.” 

Louis shifts in his seat. 

Niall doesn’t move. “It’s my job,” he says. 

Ansab smiles and her hair seems to catch fire, but it’s just a trick of the light. “That’s not the reason.” 

If Harry knows Niall at all, he knows that Niall is fighting the urge to fidget. “Harry’s my family,” Niall says. “They’re all my family, I signed up to look after them.” 

Ansab puts her cat down on the floor before saying, “There’s another that could distract you, Captain. Or am I wrong?”

Niall doesn’t dignify that with a response and Harry wonders if the priestess is referring to Arfa. It would make sense if she is. Niall has put Harry and his family above everything for years, but he wonders if that’s about to change soon. He doesn’t know how Ansab could know anything about Arfa, considering no one has mentioned her and she isn’t here, but it’s a strange thought. Harry didn’t realize Niall’s feelings could be that strong in such a short time, but then Louis moves again next to him and he’s acutely aware of his own feelings. He didn’t know he could fall in love with Louis, he didn’t know he _did_ fall in love with Louis, but now it’s hard to imagine a time when he won’t. 

The priestess focuses on Louis with curious eyes. “You’re the human embodiment of loyalty, aren’t you?” It’s not a question, really, and Louis doesn’t answer her. The only acknowledgement he gives is a tilt of his head. Ansab’s cat comes to lay by the foot of Louis’ chair and the priestess follows the movement. She adjusts the strap of her brown bag, eyes still scrutinizing Louis in a way that sets Harry on edge. He puts a hand on Louis’ thigh and wishes he could pull him closer, but he doesn’t dare actually do it. “Oh, this is interesting,” Ansab muses, almost to herself, and when her eyes narrow, Harry could swear they flash from a dark brown to an electric green. It happens too quickly for him to see if anyone else noticed, but he could _swear_ they changed color for half a heartbeat. “I can see why you both want to sever your bond,” she says. 

Louis speaks before Harry can. “What does that mean?” 

Ansab glances around the room, as though she didn’t hear Louis. “Is this where I have to do it? I’d much prefer to be somewhere under the open sky.” 

Harry looks up at Niall, who has eyes only for the priestess. Next to him, Gemma squeezes his arm in what Harry assumes is reassurance. It’s odd, he thinks, how his _soul_ is going to be permanently altered soon and he doesn’t know what to say to anyone. 

“The fresh air will help replenish me during the ritual,” Ansab explains at their blank looks. “It’ll be exhausting, more so than I was expecting, so I’ll need to be outside.” 

Unease claws at his stomach, crawls up his chest and wraps around his windpipe. He puts his head down on the table and closes his eyes, tries to breathe rhythmically like he’s trained himself to, but it doesn’t work. Fast, shallow gasps of air fill his lungs and he feels a hand come to rest on his back, then Louis’ voice in his ear whispering, “Hey, it’s okay.” Familiar fingers wrap around his wrap, pressing gently. “You’re okay, Princeling, just breathe. Focus on me.” Harry tries to, does his best to cling to Louis’ voice, but the slimy feeling pooling inside of him makes it difficult. Fingers tugging at his hair pull him back, just enough for him to lift his head when Louis continues in a hushed tone, “Look at me, Harry. Hey.” Louis’ eyes are a summer sky, the flecks of gold in them like stray beams of sunlight. He cradles Harry’s face with one of his hands, gets close enough to press their foreheads together. “Breathe, Harry.” He takes Harry’s hand in his other one and presses it firmly against his chest, right over his heart, and Harry can feel the steady beat under his palm. 

Harry closes his eyes again and lets himself get swept in the rhythm of Louis’ heartbeat. He thinks about the way his name sounds every time it rolls out of Louis’ mouth and he lets it tether him to this moment. 

_One, two, three…_

Louis’ mouth brushes against the shell of his ear, his hair tickling the side of Harry’s face. “You wanted this, remember? We both want this.” 

He does. He wants so desperately to put an end to what causes them both so much pain, but in this moment he’s suspended between fear and uncertainty and he grips at Louis’ clothes, tries to pull him closer so there’s so space left between them. “I’m scared,” he confesses, two broken syllables splintering as they fumble from his tongue. “I don’t want to lose you.” He wants to tuck the words away into Louis’ hands, stuff them into his pocket for later when no one can see or hear them. 

“Oh.” Louis’ voice sounds watery, like maybe he’s crying, and that’s something Harry doesn’t want to even imagine. He can’t. And Louis doesn’t give him the chance, either, because his arms wound around Harry in a tight embrace. “I’m here, baby. You got me, Harry, I promise.”

Harry breathes in the scent of vanilla on Louis’ clothes and just stays there, face tucked into Louis’ neck. He drops a kiss there, just because he can, and Louis squeezes him a little tighter. 

“It’s okay. I’ve got you, alright?” 

“Don’t leave, please.” His words bleed into Louis’ skin. 

Harry’s hurled back to reality with the sound of someone’s throat clearing and he remembers, to his utter mortification, that they aren’t alone. His mother and sister are sitting beside him and a stranger is observing them with far too much interest.

“Shall we move this outside?” Ansab asks, kneeling down to gesture at her cat, who obediently sashays over to her and hops into her arms. “I’d like to get through the entire ritual while it’s still light outside.” 

“How does it work, exactly?” Anne asks, speaking for the first time since Harry entered the room. “What are the risks?” 

The priestess’ smile disappears. “I was under the impression you know what this entails. I cannot perform the ritual if you’re not aware of how exhausting it can be.” She addresses that last part to Harry and Louis, even though the question wasn’t from them. 

“We know what it entails,” Harry tells her and his voice comes out scratchy. “I’ve read about it.” He gets out of his chair, but doesn’t let go of Louis’ hand, so Louis follows suit, too. “It’s long and painful and I might faint, it might hurt for hours, I know. Let’s just get it over with.”

He leads Louis out of the room without waiting for anyone else. They’ll follow, he knows, so he just walks out of the room with Louis’ hand in his. He can feel them watching him and Louis, but he focuses on the feeling of Louis’ hand in his, Louis walking alongside him, their elbows elbows knocking into each other. They need to go towards the garden, but Harry sidesteps and lets the others go ahead. “We’ll be right,” he says to Niall, who looks between the two of them very questioningly. “I’m not bailing, Niall, just — give us a moment. Please. It won’t take long.” 

After a long, pensive moment, Niall sighs. “Hurry up.” 

Then it’s just Harry and Louis in an empty corridor, just like the first time Harry kissed Louis. He backs Louis into the wall again so he’s caged in between Harry’s arms, his eyes keeping Harry captive. Raising one hand to rest against the side of Louis’ neck, thumb pressing into his throat, Harry leans close until his lips brush Louis’ ear. “You’re the difference between love and in love,” he murmurs, low enough so that the words hover only in the air between them. He can feel the staccato rhythm of Louis’ pulse underneath his thumb and it’s heady in the way that it makes him want to press his mouth against it, so he does. He kisses the spot and then Louis tugs at his hair, pulling his head back. 

“It’s not a competition, but I’ve loved you longer than you’ve loved me.” His tone is light and the words come out bordering on flippant, but there’s a storm brewing in those eyes even when he places the smallest kiss on the tip of Harry’s nose. “I plan on doing that for a long time, Princeling. Everything will be fine.” 

He pulls Harry in by the collar, then, and this time Louis kisses him hard enough to bruise. Harry savors every second of it. 

▴

When they walk out into the garden, Ansab has already set up what Harry assumes is everything she needs to perform the ritual. There are chairs and hammocks, but she has laid out her things directly on the grass and Harry catalogs everything he can recognize and tries to match it to what he remembers from his readings. There’s a round, ash gray bowl, which has to be the vessel that was mentioned in the book. It’s small, hardly big enough to hold a cup of water, and it's chipped in several places along the rim. Two dark blades lay on either side of it, their handles hooked and wooden. They’re lackluster, just like the bowl. On top of the bowl is a small, leatherbound book that looks a little worse for wear and it looks perfectly in place next to the other items. 

All of it is laid out in front of the priestess and she nods to the open space across from her. 

Harry spares a glance at Louis, then at his family standing by. His mother holds his eyes for longer than is necessary and Harry tries to smile at her, but his face feels like it’s frozen in place and he can’t move a muscle. Something heavy weighs in his throat. 

When they sit down, Ansab doesn’t immediately begin the ritual. Instead, she pets the cat next to her and her eyes flicker between Harry and Louis. “I don’t do these often,” she says to them, voice airy and stray strands of hair dancing in the breeze. “In fact, this is only my second time severing a soulbond and I feel the need to tell you exactly what’s about to happen.” 

Something about the way those words sound next to each other tells Harry that he should be nervous about what she’ll say next, but some sort of unnatural calm takes over him. It’s like he’s bathed in the softest blue that he can’t touch or see, but it’s there. 

“You’re different,” Ansab declares as a matter of fact. “Typically soulmates have a red string tied to them in one spot — typically the wrist, but it can differ from pair to pair. You two are anomalies and I’ve only heard of something like this once in my lifetime, from my great grandmother.” 

Louis takes Harry’s hand in his own and twines their fingers together. Harry counts his breaths.

“Your red thread is tangled,” Ansab continues, her eyes closed now. “It’s wrapped around your torsos, tying your wrists to one another’s and it clings to your ankles.” Her eyes blink open and the brown in them is once again green, but this time it doesn’t disappear. Her eyes stay an unnatural green as she says to Louis, “You’ve been more invested in this than your prince, haven’t you? More in tune with his feelings than he ever was and you didn’t even know it. You’re dripping crimson, darling. And you,” she looks at Harry, the green _glowing_ like it never should. “You took a deep dive and never learned how to swim your way out. And you don’t want to, either.” 

Harry thinks he knows what she means, but he doesn’t have the time to process any of it before she picks up her book. “You’re not soulmates and you’re not half souls,” Ansab professes. “You’re not two fragments of the same soul looking to complete itself. You’re twin flames. You’re _one_ soul that was never split apart. The constant push and pull between you two has been your soul trying to reconcile itself with other parts of you, like your hearts. You have a single green strand connected from heart to heart and breaking it is going to make you wish you’d never been born.” 

She waits for them to say anything, but Harry can’t get a word out and Louis is just as stunned. Neither of them speak and the sun above them hides behind a cloud. “Why isn’t your medic here yet, Captain?” she asks without looking at Niall. 

Harry hears Niall say something, but he can’t quite figure out what it is. 

Then Ansab flips open her book to a previously bookmarked page and begins reciting something in a language Harry only barely knows. He doesn’t know it well by any means, but he did study it when he was younger and that’s the only reason he can pick out phrases like _forgive our faults_ and _two bodies_ and _have mercy on our fallen_. It must only take a minute or two at most, but it feels like hours and his palm feels clammy against Louis’. As she says the last words of her chant, Harry feels phantom pricks all of his body, like he’s being shoved into a bed of cacti and he glances down at his skin to see if he’s bleeding, but there’s nothing. Next to him, Louis shifts, too, and Harry wonders if he’s experiencing the same horrible feeling.

Ansab closes the book and sets it down before picking up both of the knives and offering them to Harry and Louis. The weight of the knife feels unnatural in Harry’s hand, probably because he doesn’t make a habit of dealing with weapons very often, but still. It feels different than the times he tried learning knife fighting. This blade feels heavier, even though it’s smaller than the ones Harry has dealt with before. 

The priestess holds up her left hand and drags her right index finger down the middle of her palm. “You need to make a cut down the center of your right palms like this,” she instructs them and Harry fights back a wave of nausea at the thought of slicing open his own palm deliberately. “Deep enough to bleed generously. It will heal eventually once your medic is able to ward off any infections. Go on.” 

When Harry read that they would need to give their blood for the ritual, he imagined someone else would make a quick cut and he would be too preoccupied otherwise to really think about it. Now, with the knife in his hand and his own palm outstretched in front of him, Harry feels sick when he presses the tip of the blade into his skin. He digs it in a bit, not enough to pierce the skin but enough to make him wince and bite down on his lip. 

“Let me help,” comes Gemma’s voice and when Harry looks at her, he finds her with tears in her eyes. 

Maybe Harry would’ve let her do it, but Ansab breaks in to say, “They must perform the act themselves. The only help you can give them is afterwards.” 

So Harry shuts his eyes tight and drags the knife down his palm and the pain that comes with it isn’t the worst he’s felt. It’s nothing compared to what he felt when he woke up screaming in his own bed because of someone else’s pain, but it’s still whitehot and everything goes dark long enough for him to see sparks behind his eyelids. 

Harry has cut through meat before, but it’s always been cooked, and it is nothing like cutting through human flesh. 

There’s a second wave of pain, this one even more intense, and he dizzily sees that Louis has made his cut. The metallic tang of blood sets his teeth on end, but he doesn’t have time to say anything before Ansab reaches over to take their bleeding hands into her own and presses their palms together over the grey vessel, all the while slowly reciting her chant. 

As soon as Harry’s palm touches Louis’, everything changes. His vision blacks out and it’s like he’s seeing everything from outside of his body. Everything disappears and all he can see is a mirage holding his and Louis’ bodies, the priestess sitting across from them.

He watches as drops of his and Louis’ blood spill into the chipped vessel in a continuous stream, collecting in the small curvature and glinting as sunlight ricochets off of it. He watches as the priestess adds something into the vessel and, the instant it mixes with their blood, something breaks. There’s an audible, crackling _snap_ that follows, but Harry can’t see what it is. He feels it in his very core. The Ansab lets go of their hands and lights a match, throws it into the vessel and Harry watches as it gets engulfed in the flame. Immediately, his body folds in on itself and Louis collapses sideways, both of them writhing silently as their blood sizzles in the small fire and it feels as though Harry himself has been set ablaze. Every part of him feels singed and it’s like he’s being pulled apart every which way, simultaneously undone at the seams and stitched back together only to have every suture picked apart one by one. His insides feel doused in acid, his heart wrung dry and hanging motionless in his chest as his lungs heave for a fill of fresh air. 

He can’t _breathe_ even though his chest feels too big for his body and everything is on _fire._

Harry watches, inexplicably, as a cloud of crimson dust envelops him and Louis everything fades to black. 

▴

There’s darkness and fire and blood, so much blood, the taste of salt and metal sinking into his pores and everything is just red red red drowning in black. 

▴

When Harry opens his eyes, he sees ivory and gold. Something soft brushes against his cheek, followed by a familiar weight on his chest. His hands naturally come to rest around Prim’s face as she licks at his chin happily, his fingers scratching behind her ears. She whines happily as she tries to make her way farther up his chest, but Harry keeps her there and hugs her tight. His muscles feel sore with the distant memory of a pain, but it’s almost out of his grasp. It should be more acute, he thinks, but it’s just a whisper of what it ought to be. 

All he remembers is black nothing and fire licking at his bones and the smell of charred flesh. 

Someone says his name, or at least that what he thinks he hears. The sound is distorted, like it’s reaching him through a heavy layer of water. 

_Louis._

It all keeps rushing back to him, the knife and the blood and the salt and the priestess. The thread. Harry heard it snap. He heard it. He remembers Louis soundlessly squirming on the grass in agony. 

_Where is Louis?_

He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. A hand brushes across his forehead. 

His eyelids droop again and there’s nothing. 

Just nothing. 

▴

The next time he opens his eyes, Harry can’t move. It takes him a long, sluggish moment to realize it’s because someone else has their arms wrapped tightly around him and his face is pressed against their chest. He doesn’t try to break out of their hold because something feels so familiar, like he belongs right here, so he stays put. Just moves his hands from where they rest on the person’s back and slides his palms down down down until his fingers slip under the hem of the shirt and catch on the smooth bumps he knows so well. 

Louis tightens his arms around Harry. Harry digs his fingers into the scars on Louis’ back. 

_Mine,_ he thinks. 

The sheer intensity of his desire leaves him unsteady, greedy. 

“Louis.” 

_Mine because I want you to be._

He drags his fingertips along jagged scars. _“Louis._ Say something.”

He waits for Louis to push him away, for Louis to say he doesn’t feel what Harry feels, waits for Louis to say everything between them was a manifestation of their bond, but then Louis’ mouth presses against Harry’s forehead and he whispers, “You made me wait for so long.” Then he pulls back, touches Harry’s face with one hand and Harry takes it in his own, frowns at the gauze wrapped around Louis’ hand. He remembers the knife and the blood and the cut, remembers their blood burning and flinches at the memory. When he looks up, Louis’ smiling. “Touch it,” he says. 

Harry’s confused for one miniscule moment before realization dawns and he puts two fingers in the center of Louis’ palm and presses down. He watches as Louis’ features contort in discomfort, braces himself for the phantom pain to reach his own palm and — nothing. 

There’s nothing. 

“Louis,” he says, word broken in so many places, his voice shot with pain he can’t describe and can’t feel, but Louis’ eyes are twinkling. He’s wearing another one of Harry’s silk tops, a pale blue one, and it makes Harry’s heart flutter. He’s in Harry’s bed wearing Harry’s clothes, looking at Harry with stars in his eye and Harry doesn’t quite know how to breathe right. 

_You look like you're mine,_ he thinks.

“I can’t hurt you anymore, Princeling.” 

Harry shakes his head and takes Louis’ face in his hands, pays no mind to his own bandaged palm. “You have to say my name now. Say my name, Louis. You make it sound safe.” 

“I can’t hurt you anymore, Harry,” he says and Harry kisses him. 

He can breathe again. 

_In love or getting there._

He’s there. 

For Louis, he’d burn in a fire of his own making. 

▴▴▴

After Harry has taken a bath and changed into fresh clothes that don’t smell of fire or blood, he clings to Louis as they both make their way out of Harry’s room. Immediately, the nearest guard says he’ll alert Anne and Gemma, so Harry asks him to get Niall and Arfa, too, and heads to the throne room. He just wants to let everyone know he’s fine and then he wants to be alone with Louis. He just wants Louis, who keeps Harry’s hand close to his chest as they walk, dropping kisses to Harry’s knuckles every few minutes. 

When they reach the throne room, everyone is there — not just Harry’s mother and sister, but Niall and Arfa and Liam and Merida, too, along with Louis’ sisters. They’re all there. Louis lets go of Harry and Harry immediately heads towards his mother, who has arms open before he’s taken a single step. He hears Louis’ laughter as his sisters probably crowd around him, so Harry just holds his mother tight against him and it doesn’t take long before he feels Gemma fitting herself into the hug. 

“We were all so worried, darling.” His mother sounds like she’s been crying and Harry feels a twinge of guilt at being the reason for that, but it’s wiped away when she pulls back and kisses his cheek. “He really is lovely, you know,” she says with a nod in Louis’ direction and Harry can’t stop the smile that takes over his face. 

“Yeah. He really is.” 

“You picked a good one, Harry,” Gemma says. 

Louis’ surrounded by his siblings and there’s another person, too, now. Zayn. He’s watching Louis with such fondness that Harry would almost feel jealous if he didn’t get pulled into someone’s body right at that moment. It’s jarring for a moment before he hears Niall’s voice in his ear promising, “If you do that to me again and make me watch you lose consciousness as you bleed out, I swear I’m going to kill you myself.” It makes Harry chuckle and he squeezes Niall back, who only hits the back of Harry’s head without letting go. “I’m serious, you fucker. Make me worry like that again and see what happens.” 

“I love you, too, Nialler.” 

When Niall does finally pull away, he does so with an obnoxiously loud kiss to Harry’s forehead. “Fuck you,” he says, and then he gestures for Arfa to come closer. When she does, Niall puts a hand on her and nudges her closer to Harry. “You two have to be friends now, I’m not leaving it up for discussion.” 

Harry doesn’t wait. He just pulls her into a hug, sweeping her feet off the floor because she’s so much shorter than him and it makes her squeal, which in turn makes Harry laugh. “Thank you,” he tells her sincerely. “For taking care of Louis when I couldn’t. For looking after my best friend. For always looking after my family. For everything.”

“I was raised to look after people I love,” Arfa says back to him. “Mum came to see you, too, but you weren’t awake. She’ll come again soon.”

Harry sets her down with a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll go visit her,” he promises. 

And then it’s Merida and Liam, which is an interesting “reunion” because Harry isn’t particularly close with Liam, but the soon-to-be king of Novac still greets Harry with a warm hug. It’s not quite as aggressive as Niall’s, but it’s still comforting in a brotherly way, albeit reserved, and it makes Harry smile into Liam’s shoulder. Merida, on the other hand, has no such reservations and simply stares Harry down with a smirk playing at her lips. 

“You’re one cocky bastard, aren’t you, Prince?” 

In lieu of answering, Harry pulls her into a hug, too. Why the hell should she be left out? “I thought you’d have run off back to your girl by now,” Harry teases. 

“Yeah, well. I would have, if you hadn’t pulled your little stunt and worried all of us by not waking up for nearly sixteen hours.” 

Harry hums. She could have gone back home weeks ago if she’d wanted, but he doesn’t bring that up. Instead, he pulls back with an apology on his lips when someone tugs at his elbow. He looks down to find one of the twins staring up at him, big blue eyes full of emotions that far surpass a child of her age. Harry kneels down to say hello and she throws her arms around his neck, making him rock in place as he struggles to regain his balance. More than one person laughs and he doesn’t even bother looking to know Louis’ one of them. 

“Louis says he’s not gonna get hurt anymore,” she says quietly in Harry’s ear and her words wipe the smile off of his face. That’s not what he was expecting from a kid, but he can’t say he’s surprised, either. They’ve seen their brother more injured in the last month than they ever should have in their entire lives. 

“I’ll take care of him, I promise.” 

“He’s my favorite brother,” she tells him. 

Harry doesn’t say he’s their only brother. Instead, he says, “He’s my favorite, too.” 

Looking up, Harry realizes with a start that all the people he loves most are in one room. This is bliss, he thinks. This is all he’s ever wanted — his mother and sister both safe and sound, his best friend happy with someone who loves him, his person with him. That’s all he’s wanted for years and years and he gets to have it. 

▴

Later, Harry takes Louis to the stables and they go straight to Darling first, who could not be happier to see Harry if the way she hugs him is anything to go by. She even lets Louis close to her again, treats him so gently that it almost makes Harry question if this is really his mare. Not that he should be surprised. Louis won over Prim without a word, so it’s no wonder that Darling loves him, too. And that’s why Harry drags Louis to the other horse next. 

Malachi. 

He stands back and watches in great fascination as the black horse greets Louis happily, which is so unlike how he greets almost every other person who approaches him. Case in point being the unimpressed grunt when Harry steps up next to Louis and attempts pet to Malachi. It makes Louis laugh delightedly and, for once, Harry doesn’t even mind the rejection. 

“He’s yours,” he tells Louis. 

“Yeah, he is,” Louis says fondly. 

“No, I mean — he’s _yours,_ Louis. Only yours.” Louis stares at him with wide, disbelieving eyes and Harry runs a thumb along his cheek. _Mine._

“You can’t just _give_ me a horse, Harry.” Even as he says the words, his hand runs through Malachi’s mane. 

“I’d give you the world,” Harry says easily. “Say the word and it’s yours.” 

“The word,” Louis grins. 

“Shut up,” Harry grins back. “Kiss me.” 

Louis does. 

▴

That night, when everyone else is asleep, Harry takes Louis to the library. 

The quietude of the night is welcome when they walk hand in hand down the stairs and through the corridors. Everything feels like home. Something in him should be missing, he keeps thinking. His _soul_ was altered. He should feel different, he should feel hollow. He should feel half of what he once was. Instead, he feels complete and completely at peace. 

So he takes Louis to the corner in the library and, without being told, Louis sits at the desk. It makes Harry smile like a fool and Louis quirks a confused brow. 

“What?” he asks. 

Harry drops to his knees on the floor and takes Louis’ bandaged hand in both of his own. 

“You don’t kneel,” Louis says. 

“I was sitting in this chair when I first realized I might be in love with you,” he tells Louis. As soon as the words are out, Louis’ eyes soften impossibly and his mouth forms a silent _oh._ “I wrote your letter right here, when I thought I might be losing you without even knowing how much I wanted. How much I _want_ you. I drove you crazy and you still came back to me, even after all the madness and the ugliness. I was blinded by other things before, but I’ve got your back now, Lou. I swear it. If anyone so much as thinks about hurting you, they’ll regret the mere thought. I promise you.” 

“Harry.” 

“What?” 

Louis smiles. “Nothing.” 

“Tell me.” 

“Just can’t believe I get to have you. I’ve wanted this for two years.”

Harry gets to his feet and pulls Louis with him. “I’m sorry I made you wait,” he murmurs, just for them. “I’m all yours.” 

Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s torso and sighs. Maybe the whole world sighs quietly, too quiet for them to hear. His chin resting on Louis’ shoulder, Harry stares out of the window above the desk. The snow has melted entirely, leaving clear expanses of soil for flowers to sprout and bloom. The night sky is clear, not a cloud in sight and stray stars blinking faintly in the distance. He’d take Louis to the very edge of the sky, if he could. He’d gather all the stars there, if he could. He’d lay them all at Louis’ feet, if he could, and let Louis choose his favorites. He’d make Louis a home out of stars, if he could. Maybe, if he could write their story, he’d give them a home made out of stars. 

For now, this is home. He’s at home wherever Louis is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @rosesau xoxo leave a comment if u enjoyed 💕 if u have any complaints abt them breaking bond pls take it up with the manager but idk where she is. also there Might be smth on tumblr from louis' pov in a little while if enough ppl want it so keep an eye out for that if u want but until then hope ur staying safe and hydrated


	5. loving you's the antidote

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> promised a lil smth from louis' pov so..... enjoy 🤍 thank u for ur support so far, leave a comment if u want 🥺 - s

_“After all, soulmates always end up together.” — Cecelia Ahern_

* * *

Sunset is the favourite time of day for Louis.

Harry disagrees, says that sunrises are better because he can watch a new day breaking through the horizon. Louis gets that, but who doesn’t like colourful beginnings? He prefers sunsets. There’s a catharsis in watching the sun dip low low low, splashes of auburn fire lapping at the oceans as it disappears in the water. It’s hypnotising to watch fire get swept up in water, but that’s not why Louis loves it so much. 

For Louis, it’s the promise of another morning. When he’s watching the sun go to sleep, somewhere someone else is waiting for it to wake up. Somewhere someone else is waiting to watch the dark sky blossom in colour, an array of pinks and purples dashing across the horizon. 

It’s the promise and anticipation of new beginnings that Louis loves so much about sunsets. 

He leans back on his elbows, head rolling to the side as he watches the sky crimson strokes dance across the sky. His lungs fill with the summer air and he exhales it on a laugh when Harry lets himself be tackled onto the grass by Prim. 

Arfa nudges him. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” 

“What?” Louis asks, eyes fixed on his prince. 

“Just… this. You and Harry. You here. Things being good, you know? He’s happy.” 

“Yeah.” 

Louis’ happy too. It’s not difficult getting accustomed to waking up in Harry’s arms, kissing him awake and staying in bed, tracing patterns onto his skin. Last week he saw Harry asleep in _his_ house, little Doris cuddled next to him. It’s an image Louis can’t get out of his head. Around the same time, Fizzy warmed up to him — that is, she stopped actively trying to set him on edge. It’s progress. Before that, he saw Harry talking to Zayn and neither looked repulsed by the other. In fact, Harry walked away with a smile on his face and that night he said to Louis, “I think Zayn is a good friend. I’m glad you have him.”

He never thought Harry would make a space for himself in Louis’ family, but he did and Louis never wants it to change. 

“I still find it incredible that it took him so long to realise his own feelings,” Arfa muses from next to him. A little ways off, Harry throws a ball and claps excitedly as he humours Prim. “And once he realised, he didn’t wait to act on them.” 

They’ve had this conversation before, different variations of it. Louis sometimes wonders what would’ve happened if he had just made a move on Harry long before any of the madness happened, long before they both got sucked into a story they didn’t want to be a part of. Would Harry have given then, back when he was just a prince and Louis was just a guard? 

“He is infuriating,” Louis concurs finally, watching Harry gather the dog in his arms. “And he’s lovely. He’s everything at once.” 

Loving Harry wasn’t always easy. 

Sometimes loving Harry was a distant ache, hollow and echoey, but Louis could mute it. When he was wasn’t around Harry all the time, he could pretend it wasn’t there, that it was just an infatuation that flared up and glowed in Harry’s presence. 

Like that time, almost a year ago, when he told Arfa that it was just a momentary fascination, that it would go away eventually. Later, he found Harry laughing and watering flowers and was overcome with the desire to pluck a rose from the bush, slide it into Harry’s hair and kiss the dimple in his cheek. The desire was always there, hidden in the corners of his heart.

Sometimes loving Harry was a bloodsport, a constant stream of _red_ trickling down his bones. It was nightmarish, waking up in the middle of the night and wanting to feel Harry’s skin against his, only to realise that he was alone in bed and the scent of blood was of his own, real and pungent. 

Like that time, several months ago, when Harry tried compelling him to forget they were soulmates. Louis stormed out of that room with barely concealed rage, fingertips shaking with the unbridled urge to put his fist through a wall. The overbearing pretense of concern contrasted with the utter lack of respect for Louis as an autonomous _person_ made him want to break his own wrist and let the pain carry over to Harry’s bones. Still, a part of him longed to know what Harry tasted like, but it vanished when Arfa cleaned his wounds and the smell of disinfectant mixed with his blood settled like acid in his mouth. 

That was then.

Now, Harry saunters over with a lopsided smile dangling from his lips, one hand carelessly swiping stray curls back from his forehead. 

“Hi,” he breathes, eyes bright. 

“Hi, love” Louis says, eyes on Prim. 

“I’m over here,” Harry says. Spoiled brat. 

Louis blinks up at him, bites back his own smile. “Hello, princeling. You’re cutting into my quality time.”

Harry rolls his eyes, crouches down to hand Prim over to Arfa. “Can you take her inside, please? I’ll owe you.”

Arfa looks between Harry and Louis, brows raising in a silent question, and Louis shrugs. She and Harry have formed an easy sort of friendship, half playful jabs at each other and half fierce protectiveness. Instead of saying no or asking why, she says, “I’ll take her if you get me ginger tea in half an hour.”

Harry grins. “Deal.” 

So Arfa takes Prim inside and it’s just Harry and Louis in the garden, the sun dipping low low low in the sky. 

Harry sits down next to Louis, leans close to brush a kiss along Louis’ cheekbone. “Stay awake with me and watch the sunrise tomorrow,” he says. 

“Okay.” 

He mirrors Louis’ position on the grass, leaning back on his elbows for a moment before he rests his head against Louis’ shoulder. A moment later, he turns over fully, pushing Louis onto his back and then pressing his cheek against Louis’ chest. Where that gesture once made Louis’ heart beat erratically, now it continues in a steady rhythm. He secures his arms around his prince. 

This is familiar. 

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asks. 

“The sun rising and falling and you,” Louis answers.

Harry hums, but doesn’t say anything else. He just taps one finger against Louis’ abdomen, matches the rhythm of Louis’ heart. Above them, the red streaks in the sky get darker and darker and then there’s just dark. Muted blackness. 

Harry asks, “What about me?”

“All the ways you make me feel.” 

Harry shifts then, hovers over Louis, their noses touching. Louis closes his eyes just as Harry kisses him, warm and soft and slow, like they have all the time in the world — and they do. 

“You make me feel like breezy summer days,” Harry breaths against Louis’ mouth, then drops a kiss right at the corner. 

“Ironic,” Louis says back, mind a dizzy haze of _Harry Harry Harry._ “I was born in the middle of winter.” 

“Makes sense,” Harry says. His thumb brushes tenderly along Louis’ cheekbone, slow enough that Louis opens his eyes just to make sure he’s not imagining it. “You’re warmth in the cold winter days.” 

It’s dark and Louis can’t really see too well, even as close as they are, but he just knows Harry has that sparkle in his eyes — when he know his words will leave Louis’ heart aflutter. Their relationship started with Louis leaving Harry speechless more times than not, but lately Harry has made it a habit to stun Louis into a warm silence. 

Louis doesn’t really know what to say to that because he isn’t used to someone being this honest with him, isn’t used to someone revering him like he’s the actual sun brightening the sky, so he just rolls them over, sealing Harry’s mouth with his own. Harry’s hand travel down to Louis’ waist, slip underneath Louis’ shirt and still, four months later, Louis’ breath hitches as Harry’s fingertips brush against his scars. 

A month ago, Louis saw his ruined back in a mirror and had a breakdown. The once smooth skin was ravaged in a mess of scar tissue, criss crossed in an ugly patchwork of nightmares that still plague him in the night. He tried to claw it off with his nails and that’s how Harry found him — scratching desperately at his back and hiccuping through shallow gasps. 

They stood there, Harry holding Louis in place and Louis uselessly trying to fight him off. Harry held him as he gasped through the phantom pain, kissed away the tears Louis was too proud to acknowledge. 

Days later, Harry inked the night sky onto Louis’ back, scars turned into stars. 

“Now we match,” he told Louis afterwards, the tattooed stars on his own knee on display. 

With his hands splayed across Louis’ back, he whispers, “I love you a lot.” 

“I know,” Louis says. 

Loving Harry now is the antidote to every scar that Louis can’t see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mwah x

**Author's Note:**

> leave a kudos if u enjoyed! and comment too bc im insecure and desperate for validation. will be checking obsessively xoxo and ch 2 will be up asap ♡


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